wheels of a dream
by synchronysymphony
Summary: this is a crossover with E.L. Doctorow's Ragtime, but I don't know how to tag it ;m; also it's super bad? this is literally just storage so I can read it later ,,,, anyway it's the ragtime story with les ami(e)s
1. Chapter 1

In 1906, Felix Tholomyes built a house at the crest of Madison Avenue on the hill overlooking New Rochelle.

This was prime real estate, and it had cost a small fortune just to get the land (never mind the building materials), but this was no hardship. Tholomyes was a wealthy man– a very wealthy man. His considerable fortune had been amassed through the manufacture and sale of fireworks, and bunting, and other accoutrements of patriotism. Through hard work, insight, and a healthy dose of exploitation, he had built up enough wealth to keep his family in comfort for generations to come. If he sometimes came off as a bit abrasive, well, that really wasn't his fault, was it? After all, the rich could afford to be eccentric.

Tholomyes had more than money and a beautiful home. He also had a family. A failed union several years prior had left him with a young daughter, and no mother to see to her upbringing, which was far too complicated for his liking. And being single had its social disadvantages, so he had found a beautiful young heiress at least 30 years his junior, bought off her family with a lavish dowry (and the promise of letting her impossible old grandfather come live with them), and married her.

Her family had been more than happy to get her off their hands, and at first he had no idea why, because she was easily the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, and was charming and intelligent besides, but he soon realized the reason. Angelica, or Enjolras, as she preferred to be called, was completely impossible. This sweet, lovely angel was capable of being terrible, and what's more, she made it known at the first opportunity that she was really a man. Tholomyes didn't like this at all, but Enjolras was rich and beautiful and well-connected, and he wasn't likely to find anyone more capable of keeping him in the good graces of his peers, so he contented himself with taking advantage of his beauty, and (in equal part) taking out all his anger and aggression on him behind closed doors.

Marius was Enjolras's younger brother. Although he was only a year younger, he lacked so much maturity that most people assumed the gap to be much bigger.

He was an awkward young man who spent all his time in the library or at Vaudeville shows, trying to get the popular showgirl Cosette to notice him. Of course, Cosette had no idea who he was, which only served to add to Marius's discontent with life. He was always in search of something to believe in, and Enjolras, who offered him countless choices only to be rebuffed again and again, wondered when exactly he would find it.

Down the street in Harlem, people danced and sang to the music of Combeferre, a talented young pianist who charmed everyone he met with his silver tongue and gift of music. He was a star in every way possible- including in love.

One young man thought Combeferre played just for him. His name was Feuilly.

Feuilly was a poor working man, but he never let that stop him from following his dream with single-minded focus. This dream was simple: he wanted to deliver the world. It was a lofty goal, but Feuilly was dauntless; he studied everything he could get his hands on, knowing that knowledge was the only way to reach out. Everything he had learned, he had learned by himself. He had no one to help him except Combeferre, who also loved to study and read, and the two of them would often sit up late at night and page through the second-hand books they'd been able to find.

His life was more than just books and working, though. Feuilly had a secret. Long ago, in another life, he had been known as Fleur, and everyone around him had called him a woman. Fortunately, he had been able to leave that behind and present himself as he truly was, and now no one knew of his special circumstances but Combeferre. However, Combeferre knew quite well. He had to. After all, he and Feuilly were expecting a child.

In Latvia, Eponine and Grantaire dreamed of a better life for them and their child. Living day-to-day was hard, and there wasn't much to support them besides hope– and neither of them had much of that.

Eponine had been a singer in another life, but hard times and sickness had forced her to leave that behind and work two factory jobs in order to support herself and her family. Each day of drudgery drove her deeper into misery, and she could see no real way out, despite what Gavroche would say.

Grantaire was Gavroche's father and Eponine's best friend. His wife had died several years ago, leaving him destitute and alone, with no future and no hope.

He worked in the factory with Eponine, and for convenience, since neither of them had much interest in meeting anyone new, the two of them had decided to pose as a married couple in order to consolidate finances and make life a little easier. They had no romantic feelings towards each other, which made everything simple, and they were happy to be able to rely on each other as a port in the storm.

Still, there was only so much they could take, even as the small, makeshift family they'd become. It was true they had each other, and they did love each other deeply, but there was no one else in their lives, either because of an uncaring world, or outright dislike on the part of those around them. Life was cold and dark and lonely, and though they were unafraid, they were miserable, and they dreamed of finding a better life where they could all be happy, comfortable, and loved.


	2. Chapter 2

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, Tholomyes considered himself to be a bit of an amateur explorer. He would invite himself along on every expedition unlucky enough to come to his attention, make a thorough nuisance of himself, then come back to New Rochelle to boast about his exploits. Enjolras was unimpressed with this, and in truth, found it rather embarrassing, but he liked having time to himself while his husband was out of the house.

On this particular day, Tholomyes was preparing to set sail on Admiral Peary's expedition to the Arctic. He had never been so far afield before, and though he never would have admitted it, he was dreadfully nervous. He walked through the house shouting, aimed blows at everyone who came near him, and even went so far as to throw a vase at Enjolras when he came into the room without knocking.

By the time the ship was due to depart, everyone was more than happy to see him go, even Azelma, who was usually the most patient with her father's violence.

"I hope they warn the duke about him," she said to Enjolras, as they waited on the dock for Tholomyes to finish putting his luggage away. They had come to see him off, not because of any real concern for his trip, but because he had forced them.

"I'm sure they will," replied Enjolras absentmindedly. He wasn't really sure what Azelma meant about "warning the duke," but she'd been repeating the phrase for a few months now, and by this time, all he could do was agree with her. This probably wasn't what a real mother would do, but he definitely wasn't that, and besides, he was the first to admit that he wasn't good with children. Azelma seemed to like him well enough, though, and now she smiled and tugged on his hand.

"After Father leaves, can we go to the botanical garden?"

"Again? But we were there only a few days ago!"

Azelma pouted. "Yes, but Father was with us. He doesn't let me do anything."

Enjolras had to admit that this was true. Tholomyes was the most controlling person he'd ever met, almost arbitrarily so. He micromanaged every aspect of Azelma's life, down to the toys she played with and the clothes she wore. Enjolras had the vague idea that people were supposed to enjoy their childhoods, but poor Azelma didn't seem to be enjoying hers at all. He felt terrible about this, and did everything he could to make her life easier, although he knew he was often in danger of going too far in the other direction and spoiling her. But there was nothing else he could do; he found it incredibly difficult to tell her no.

"Yes, we can go to the botanical gardens," he said. "But only for a few hours, all right? I promised the servants a vacation while your father is gone, and there's a lot for me to do around the house."

Azelma smiled again. "All right! Thank you, Enjolras. And I'll help you with housework when we get back."

"You don't have to," Enjolras began, but he was arrested by Tholomyes, who came up to him and leaned down to press a dramatic, showy kiss onto his mouth.

"I'll be leaving now, wife. I trust you'll act sensibly while I'm away?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And you'll write me every night?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And you'll check in with Gillenormand daily so he can make a report to my friends?"

"Yes, my– wait. What?"

Tholomyes smiled wolfishly. "Well, you know, I can't just trust your word. Women are notorious liars. I've asked Gillenormand to tell my friends what you do, and they'll tell me. So if you misbehave, I'll know."

"Setting aside the whole of what you're saying for a moment- am I to understand that you trust my grandfather more than you trust me?"

"Well, naturally." Tholomyes looked back at the ship, now boarded and ready to depart. "I need to go. Here, I've prepared some lists for you. Follow these, and use the checklist I've made for you, and Gillenormand shouldn't have anything bad to report. I will be back soon. Goodbye, my love."

Enjolras swallowed down the lump of furious indignation that had started in his throat and obediently took the proffered lists. "Goodbye, my love. Bon voyage."

Tholomyes gave him a lingering look, then nodded and turned to board the ship. He didn't look back.

Enjolras waited until the ship was safely out of the harbor before ripping the lists in his hands and throwing the bits of paper into the sea. Azelma stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Why did you do that? Father will be angry!"

"Let him. I'm not so defeated that I'll let him control me when he's not even here."

"But what will Great Grandpapa tell his friends?"

"Whatever he wants. If Felix is angry, he'll have to wait nine months before he can come back and do anything about it. Maybe by then he'll see the error of his ways."

Azelma looked amazed. She'd seen Enjolras stand up to her father before, but never so blatantly as this. Enjolras wasn't even sure if she'd known this was possible. He was glad to provide this show of independence for her; this was possibly the only part of child-rearing that he was fit to do.

"Come on, my dear," he said. "We'll go to the gardens, and if we don't take too long, we can even stop by the pastry shop on the way home."

Azelma smiled, reached for his hand, and began to tow him off down the dock. "We can do it! Come on, Enjolras, let's go have fun, now that we can!"

/

Combeferre was, to understate things, doing rather well for himself. He was at the height of his career, money was pouring in, and he was more popular than he had ever hoped. In short, he had reached the pinnacle of success.

And yet, he worried. Although it was sometimes hard to see it, he was deeply in love with his boyfriend Feuilly, and he always tried his best to keep him happy. But this seemed to be the one thing he couldn't do. Feuilly was a quiet young man, demure almost to the point of reticence. He hated being in the spotlight, hated attention, hated meeting new people. He was reserved and shy and unwilling (or maybe unable) to forge the connections that Combeferre's new status required. This didn't stop him from trying, of course; he loved Combeferre dearly, and was willing to suffer much discomfort for his sake, but he was not meant for the spotlight, and each new day was harder than the last. Combeferre saw this, and he worried.

Finally, after one more raucous party, during which Combeferre had been surrounded by crowds of people and Feuilly had been glued to the wall, Combeferre decided that the time had come for him to change the way things were. Feuilly deserved so much more than this. Combeferre was ready to give him the best thing he could– his freedom.

He didn't want to be dissuaded from his purpose, now that he'd decided what he had to do, but he knew that if he waited for even a moment longer, he would cave in and stay with Feuilly, selfish though it was. And he knew that if he tried to say goodbye, he would never be able to leave. So that night, he quietly packed a bag, gathered his sheet music, and disappeared into the night. His heart was aching, but he kept on. This way, Feuilly could be happy, and that was what mattered, not his own lonely soul.

He made his way through the streets, half by instinct, so lost as he was in his heartbreak, until he'd reached his friend Joly's apartment. Joly went to bed early, but he also woke up early, and the next day, they could talk, and everything would be a little better. It was impossible not to feel better here. Holding onto this hope, he let himself in with his spare key and crept over to the couch to while away the sleepless hours until morning.

/

Grantaire had had enough. The factory job was barely paying the bills, and it was such awful work that all of them were wasting away. Eponine was coughing more desperately these days, and as for Gavroche– well, Grantaire didn't know much about children, but he thought they were at least supposed to be able to run around by themselves. This was it. Something had to be done.

That night, he and Eponine stayed up until the dusky early hours, planning and plotting in the darkness, deciding how to leave Latvia for a better place. This was a difficult decision to make, but they knew it was ultimately the right one. By the time morning came, they had worked out all the bugs in their plans, and all that stood between them and countless opportunities was the time it would take to sail to New York.

Four months later, Grantaire, Eponine, and Gavroche had moved into their first apartment. It wasn't nice by any stretch of the imagination, nor was it particularly cheap, but for now, it was home. All three of them had taken jobs in order to pay the rent, Eponine and Grantaire in the factory, and Gavroche as a can-painter across the street (a fact which grieved the other two greatly, as they had been hoping he could go to school). Life was hard, and the city was harsh, but somehow, they were getting by. Now that they had the hope of a better life, they thrived at least a little more.

Privately, though, Grantaire wasn't sure that this _was_ a better life. They weren't making any more money than they had in Latvia, and the conditions were worse. And they had met a few people, and were learning to speak English through constant exposure, which was more than they'd had at home, but Grantaire didn't think that was enough to warrant much optimism. Anyone could learn languages and make friends; it didn't necessarily mean they were doing better in the world.

However, he didn't want to bring the others down, so he kept his opinions to himself. He had always been told that he was unbearably cynical, and he was introspective enough to admit that his biases might be coloring his opinion somewhat. Still, it was hard to keep a positive outlook when it seemed that nothing would ever change for the better.

It wasn't long before he had a chance to voice this opinion. He'd started taking the long route home from the factory, to give Eponine a little time to herself in their tiny apartment before he came back to make a crowd of three. His paths had gotten increasingly widespread as he grew more accustomed to the city, and one day, he found himself above 23rd street, in a place he usually didn't go. The people were better dressed here, obviously more well-off, and they glared at him as he wandered through the streets. He was about to turn around and head back, when he heard a commanding voice call out to him.

"Excuse me! Sir!"

Grantaire turned around to look behind him, but he saw no one, so feeling foolish, he crossed the street to see who had hailed him.

"Can I help you?"

His addressee came out into the light, smiling. She was a striking-looking woman, not young, but possessed of a remarkable grace and power.

"Good evening, sir," she said. Her voice was low and throaty. "My name is Musichetta, and I'm an anarchist. May I have a few minutes of your time?"

It wasn't a few minutes. Musichetta could talk fluently and at great length, and Grantaire didn't mind listening, since some of her points were interesting ones. He had to admit, some of the things he said were beyond the scope of his still-imperfect English, but he got the general idea of what she was saying, and he could even verbally debate it a bit. Musichetta seemed to enjoy this; her eyes lit up, and she spoke even more passionately when a challenge issued forth.

Grantaire lost track of the time he spent there arguing haltingly against her rhetoric, but before he knew it, Musichetta was extending her hand to him and handing him a card.

"You're a hard one to convince, sir. But if you would come to one of our meetings, maybe you could be persuaded to join our ranks."

Grantaire shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't deal much with politics except on the side. I don't believe in much, you see."

"I do see that." Musichetta's words were wry, but her eyes sparkled with amusement rather than scorn. "Still, please keep my card. You never know, someone might make a believer of you one day."

"I have my doubts."

"We shall see."

Grantaire just scoffed, but after he and Musichetta had parted ways and he'd finally returned home that night, he carefully tucked away the card in his sketchbook (the one luxury he'd been able to bring from Latvia). After all, she could be right. Who could ever tell?

The next day, though, all of this was put far, far out of his mind. He and Eponine had had a rare day off, and they'd decided to take Gavroche for a walk. The poor boy rarely got out anymore, and maybe the smoky city air would be better than nothing. Grantaire had led them all through the streets, slower than was his wont, since Eponine and Gavroche had to stop frequently to rest and catch their breath. It was during one of these resting periods that a rather slimy, unpleasant-looking man approached them. He leered at Eponine, who glared at him unflinchingly and made a rude gesture, at which point he turned away and didn't acknowledge her again. Instead, he focused his attention on Gavroche.

"That kid," he said, pointing with a dirty, yellowed fingernail. "How much?"

Grantaire stared at him with hooded eyes. "What?"

"How much?"

"How much what?"

"Lordy, what's wrong with you? How much money, of course. How much do you want for him?"

At first, Grantaire didn't think the man could be serious. It didn't seem possible that anyone could be so disgusting. But after a second, during which the man crept closer and circled around Gavroche with a predatory grin, he realized the gravity of the situation. A cold, burning rage coursed through him, setting his teeth on edge and chilling his blood.

"Get the hell away from us," he growled.

"Or what?" The man sidled closer, grin still firmly in place. Obviously, he didn't realize yet whom he was dealing with.

Grantaire stomped out of the shadows, standing up to his full height. Even after years of starvation, he was still big, much bigger than most people he met, and his life of manual labor had strengthened his muscles to an impressive degree. No one in their right mind would want to try and take him in a fight. The man looked at him and blanched.

"Okay, be cool, man. You know I didn't– "

Grantaire punched him. It was ridiculously easy. He went down in a flash, crumpling onto the sidewalk without a sound, as if all the noise had been knocked out of him. Eponine nodded fiercely.

"Good. He deserved that."

Grantaire shrugged. He didn't feel validated at all. What was he doing here, in this horrible place where people like this lived and walked the streets without a care? Musichetta was wrong. There was no hope for the world at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Two months after Tholomyes had left for the Arctic, another change came to Enjolras and his household in the wake of a scandal that rocked all of New Rochelle.

Cosette, the popular showgirl and heartthrob of practically every entertainment-minded person in America, had become embroiled in a sensational trial after a suspicious and near-lethal attack on her friend and sometimes-lover Jehan Prouvaire. Accusations flew thick and fast, and speculations and press ran rampant, but soon, the public seemed to reach the consensus that Jehan's attack had been no random act of violence, and had really been perpetrated by Cosette's other paramour, the bright and warmhearted Courfeyrac. Naturally, neither Cosette nor Courfeyrac took kindly to these accusations, and they set out on a quest to find the best lawyer in the city.

Now, as it happened, Marius was a lawyer. He had never practiced, preferring to work for Tholomyes, but when he heard that his idol needed help, help that he could provide, he jumped at the chance. As soon as he heard the news, he dashed out of the house and raced across town to be the first of the mob to beat down Cosette's door.

He wasn't the first. He wasn't even in the top twenty. But he was the most persistent, and the most harmless-looking, and so Cosette, tired of dealing with the hordes of rude and pushy attorneys, accepted his offer of aid.

At first, Enjolras was surprised that timid, awkward Marius had succeeded where so many others had failed, but he, too, wanted to see justice done, and so he willingly opened up his home to Cosette and Courfeyrac so they could meet without fear of interruption by the press.

The first time they came, Marius couldn't say a word. He was too much in awe of the fact that his love, beautiful, wonderful Cosette, was standing in front of him, real as the day. Enjolras, who had no patience for such sentiments, led them all into his parlor and sat them down, complete with cups of perfectly-brewed tea and individual plates of madeleines. With his delicate floral day dress and artfully styled curls, he was the very picture of the high-society hostess. Courfeyrac, always impetuous, made eyes at him across the room.

"Madame," he said. "Forgive me, but I have never seen a face as beautiful as yours. If I might ask, what is a woman like you doing in an empty house like this?"

"That's an easy question," answered Enjolras. "You see, I am no woman, and my house is not empty. But thank you for your compliment."

Courfeyrac, startled, was quiet for all of five minutes, while he tried to figure out what was going on. Finally Enjolras, realizing that the young man was not as rakish as he seemed, explained his situation. Both Courfeyrac and Cosette accepted it with no question, since they were both well acquainted with the world, and had met people from all walks of life. A beautiful man who wore dresses and held court in a tea-room was nothing out of the ordinary for them.

After this, Marius was able to find his tongue, and he shyly began to discuss the details of the case with Cosette and Courfeyrac. Enjolras, who did not have a law degree, but who was possessed of the same knowledge as someone who did, listened and offered his own opinions.

Cosette explained the problem much more succinctly than Courfeyrac, who mostly sighed and made faces and exclaimed dramatically at judicious moments. It seemed that Jehan's lawyers, angry at the threat to their favorite client, had forced him to take legal action against Courfeyrac, despite his repeated pleas for them not to. The case was totally out of his hands.

"It's a pity," said Cosette. "Jehan is one of our dearest friends. We know that he would never take us to court of his own volition, and he knows quite well that poor Courfeyrac would never harm a living soul. I do hope this won't drive an irreparable wedge between us."

Enjolras laid a reassuring hand on hers. "Don't worry, I don't believe that it will. Friendship is not a thing so easily tarnished."

"I do hope you're right," Cosette sighed. Marius looked at her longingly. He wanted to say something reassuring, too, but words didn't come as easily to him as they did to Enjolras.

"We can help," he said instead. "Please leave it to us. We'll definitely make a good case for you!"

Cosette wasn't sure what to make of her new legal team, and she wasn't entirely convinced that they would truly make a good case for her. Yes, Enjolras seemed kind and competent, and she implicitly trusted anyone who could make tea as well as he could, but Marius was much less trustworthy. He was harmless, which was why she had hired him in the first place, but now she was wondering if there was any fire beneath his meek exterior. She would need fire if she wanted to win her case, after all. What a pity that Enjolras couldn't represent her instead!

"We will think about this," she said. "Would it be possible for us to meet tomorrow? The trial is coming soon, and I would like to be ready."

Enjolras smiled. "Of course. With my husband gone, I find myself rather lacking for company. Please come whenever you would like."

"I still don't believe that your husband would leave a man as lovely as you all alone," murmured Courfeyrac. "But I'm sure you have many guests to pass the time until his return."

Enjolras's smile grew somewhat strained. "My husband prefers that I do not spend time with anyone besides himself, or those in his company. As to his return, I will wait for it with all the patience that I must."

Cosette and Courfeyrac reached for Enjolras's hands, connecting the three of them into a chain. They didn't say what they felt (that would be indecorous), but in that moment, they understood.

"We will be back tomorrow," said Cosette.

"Stay well," added Courfeyrac.

With a nod to Marius, they stepped out the door and into their waiting car. Suddenly, the impending trial seemed a small price to pay for the friends they had made.

Enjolras, Marius, Cosette, and Courfeyrac had become fast friends after only a little more than a week, and their consultations were composed of as much chitchat as legalese. Marius, who was now managing his nerves a little better, had begun to monopolize Cosette's time, so Enjolras and Courfeyrac began to talk more out of necessity.

At first, it was stilted. Enjolras was not used to making friends, since he had been kept isolated all his life, first by his family and then by his husband, and Courfeyrac was not predisposed to treat him as a potential comrade, so caught up was he in his beauty and charm. But soon, they realized that they had more in common that they had thought, and they began to spend hours talking together, tripping over their words in their haste to get them out.

For their part, Marius and Cosette were also beginning to get along. Cosette glimpsed the fire that did indeed hide in Marius's heart, and having seen it, she never lost sight of it again. For his part, Marius realized that Cosette was not an idol after all, merely a human being, and he began to talk to her as such. They didn't chatter as fervently as did Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but their conversations were important. Having passed the stage of infatuation, they were now becoming friends.

It was into this happy development that Jehan suddenly came. He visited unannounced and unaccompanied, dressed in a truly hideous velvet walking suit that had probably seen the beginnings of more than a few historical events. When Matelote showed him into the parlor, he came in shyly and hesitantly, looking as if he would rather not be there at all. He was blushing, avoiding everyone's gaze, ducking his head to such an extent that Enjolras wondered how he could see to walk.

"Hello," he said. His voice was reedy and soft. "I'm sorry to bother you, but may I come in?"

Being polite and well-bred, Enjolras didn't point out that he was already inside, and merely nodded graciously at him. "Please sit down. Can I get you anything?"

"Oh no, I'm quite all right, thank you."

Jehan shuffled towards a chair and sat down, eyes darting nervously back and forth from Cosette to Courfeyrac to Marius, and back to Enjolras again. For someone who was as guileless as Cosette reported, he was acting remarkably guilty.

"What are you doing here?" Marius asked finally, eliciting a shocked look from the others. Legal opponent or not, there was no need to be crass.

Jehan, however, was not offended. "I am here to plead my case," he said. "I come as a friend. Will you listen?"

"Of course," said Enjolras, seeing that the others were too surprised to speak. Jehan inclined his head gratefully and launched into speech.

"I am, as you know, engaged in a legal battle against Cosette and Courfeyrac. However, what you might not know is that it is not of my own volition."

"We know," said Cosette, smiling kindly. Jehan started in surprise.

"Oh. Well, then. That's good. But that's not all. You see, I am so embittered against this battle that I am here to offer my services. In point of fact, I would like to help you win your side of the case."

Now it was Enjolras's turn to stare. "What? Is that allowed?"

"I don't know," said Jehan. "But no one has to know, do they? I have heard that your house is a quiet one, sir."

"Jehan knows things," explained Cosette, seeing the look of surprise on Enjolras's face. Jehan bowed, though he was still sitting down, so it looked like he was folding in on himself.

"I make knowledge my business."

"How wonderful." Enjolras smiled warmly at Jehan, all trepidation gone. "Cosette, Courfeyrac, what do you think?"

"I think we should hear him out," said Courfeyrac immediately. "I would welcome any chance to win this case, in which public opinion is so set against me."

Cosette frowned. "But Jehan, are you sure you're willing to do this? It would be more than we could ask of you."

"But you are not asking." Jehan smiled at them all in turn, his eyes soft and kind. "I offer this freely. After all, friendship means more to me than my reputation."

Everyone was silent for a second, so affected by this simple yet poignant speech that words were beyond them. Then, Courfeyrac stood and came over to Jehan to kneel down in front of him.

"My friend, I am truly in your debt. If there's anything I can do for you, anything at all– "

"Give me your hand."

Courfeyrac looked up, startled. "What?"

"Your hand," repeated Jehan, smiling. "Give it to me."

Courfeyrac did as he was told, still confused. Jehan took it and raised it to his lips.

"I swear that I will remain in your life as long as you want me. This is an assurance– I am your friend for life."

"Oh, Jehan." Courfeyrac shot to his feet and threw his arms around the taller man, ardent as always. "You know that you have taken the words right from my mouth. I am here for you always as well, truly!"

Enjolras clasped his hands together, utterly charmed, but Marius and Cosette shared an awkward glance between them. Something was brewing here. Courfeyrac and Jehan had always been close, but now it seemed that something else was starting, something that went beyond simple friendship. Even as their friends (not to mention, lovers), Marius and Cosette couldn't help but feel that they were intruding on a private moment.

Fortunately, Jehan didn't dwell in the moment. He pulled away from Courfeyrac, nudging him back into his chair, and turned his smile on the rest of the group.

"Well," he said. "Shall we get to work?"

Cosette and Courfeyrac won their case. Of course they did. Enjolras, Marius, and Jehan made such a team that the prosecution had no chance. What's more, they performed their duty so thoroughly that public opinion shifted from blame to sympathy, and every newspaper in the country printed stories about poor, wronged Courfeyrac, and faithful Cosette, who had stood by his side through shame and disgrace, making boundless speculations as to the reason for her steadfastness. _The Romance of the Century_ , proclaimed one such headline, which Marius read with no little indignation.

"They are blatantly sidelining us," he said to Jehan.

Jehan, however, was sanguine. "They are not expected to know. You and I are not so much in the public eye, and they should not be blamed for misinterpreting our relationship."

"But they are at fault for misinterpreting it nonetheless," replied Marius stubbornly.

Jehan merely smiled and patted the distraught young lover on the shoulder. He still had much to learn.


	4. Chapter 4

When Feuilly first learned that Combeferre had left him, he remained in denial for quite some time. Of course Combeferre would be back; he wouldn't leave him all alone like this when they were about to start a family together. They'd been so happy. True, Feuilly hadn't much liked being the talk of the town, but he'd been able to put up with it as long as he was with Combeferre. He would do much for love's sake. And Combeferre had accepted him as he was, never trying to make him more outgoing, or pressuring him into doing things that were uncomfortable for him. So, he had thought that everything was fine.

Accordingly, he convinced himself that this was only a temporary leave of absence. Combeferre had many obligations. Maybe this time, he'd had to play a concert in an excessively crowded place, and he hadn't told Feuilly about it, because he didn't want to guilt him into going. Surely that must be it. Feuilly kept the house in good shape, cleaning every day, and cooking more food than he could eat by himself in hopes that Combeferre would be back in time for dinner.

Only after the landlord came to evict him for not making that month's rent, did he realize that Combeferre was not coming back. He was well and truly alone.

It was during this time that the baby was born. Feuilly couldn't afford a hospital, and he had no one to assist him with delivery. So he did it all by himself, hidden in the back corner of the alley behind Devoll's liquor store. He cried the whole time, less from the pain of delivery than from the pain in his heart.

When the child was born, Feuilly could hardly stand to look at him. Here he was, a symbol of a broken promise and a love that would never be again. Once, this child had been his hope and pride. Now, it was just a reminder of how lonely he was. He couldn't bear to hold it, so he set it beside him in the alleyway while he tried to get a few hours of sleep. It was no use. The baby's hungry cries kept him awake all night.

The next day, Feuilly cleaned himself off as best he could, wrapped the baby in his one extra shirt, and set off to find a place to give it away. There was no way he could provide for this child, especially when even just holding him hurt. No doubt about it, he would have to find someone else to give him his best chance. He deserved love, and Feuilly knew he could not unguardedly give that.

Not being in the business of dealing with babies, let alone giving them up for adoption, Feuilly had no idea where to deposit his little bundle. A hospital, maybe, or a church, but then there would be questions, and well-meaning people, and it would all be too difficult. Feuilly couldn't deal with difficult. He could barely even stand up.

He was just beginning to despair, when he caught sight of a garden, charming and spacious, partially enclosed by a low fence, and easy to access. It was cool and shady-looking, and on this hot day, Feuilly wanted nothing more than to rest. He pushed open the gate (of course it was unlocked– rich people had no fear) and went inside. There, he collapsed under one of the trees to rest for a minute.

He had caught his breath and was ready to leave, but suddenly an idea came to him. This garden belonged, no doubt, to a very rich person. Judging by the careful attention to the trellises, and the neatly pruned borders, it was a person with a lot of free time. Why shouldn't he leave the baby here? Surely this person, whoever it was, was lonely and bored, seeking solace in their garden, where they could at least peer over the wall into the street. Yes, surely they would be a good candidate to take the baby.

Feuilly smiled for the first time in weeks. He set the baby down under the tree (he was sleeping fitfully now, and seemed unlikely to wake), and took a quick moment to say goodbye. He looked like Combeferre, really, something about the eyes, and the hands. Maybe, this child could grow up to be a great musician one day. He laid a kiss on the baby's head in blessing– it wasn't his fault that his father's heart was too broken to care for him. Then, quiet as he could, he slipped out of the garden and back out to the street.

Enjolras had never liked gardening before his marriage. It was dirty and uncomfortable, and it had seemed unimportant when there were so many other things requiring his attention. But after Felix, he had had to seek refuge in whatever manner he could. The library, which had been his haven in his parents' house, was now unsafe, as Felix could come in at any time and berate him, or worse, demand his attention and time. Thus, he had turned to the garden. He could escape here, at least for a little while, and among the flowers and fragrant spears of grass, he felt almost content.

Now that Felix was gone, there was no need to escape, but Enjolras still often went out to primp and prune his now-beloved plants. He had become so used to living in fear that the house felt oppressive sometimes, even when the source of his oppression was away. So, whenever he found himself instinctively ducking his head as he entered a room, or flinching away when someone talked to him, he would take a breath, put on his biggest hat, and head out to the garden to destress.

Today was one of those days. He had been feeling itchy and nervous all morning, to the point that even Azelma's bright and normally welcome chatter was giving him a headache. He tried to give her books to read to keep her quiet, but she had never been a quiet child, and soon she was back, clinging to his skirts and clamoring for attention. So, it was really as a last-ditch effort to keep his sanity that he took her out to the garden and told her to look for insects while he weeded the flowerbeds.

It worked for awhile. He was picking the grass out of the roses, and the noise in his head had faded to a quiet hum, and for a second, everything was almost all right. And then, Azelma screamed.

Azelma screamed a lot. Enjolras was used to it. He figured it was something that children did (not that he knew– he had been forcibly discouraged from making noise in his own childhood), and he never reprimanded her as long as she wasn't bothering anyone. Still, though, he now turned around sharply.

"What is it, Azelma? What's the matter?"

"Look!" Azelma pointed with round eyes. "Enjolras, look!"

Enjolras came over to look where she was pointing. At first, he didn't see anything. Then…

"A baby. There's a baby under our peach tree."

"A baby," repeated Azelma solemnly.

Enjolras didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry. Was this real life? He cautiously approached the baby, as if it might suddenly grow up and come over to him.

"Hello?" he ventured.

"It can't talk back," said Azelma. "It's a baby."

Well, she had a point there. Enjolras bent down and gingerly picked up the baby. He had held babies before, of course, but he had never gotten used to it. They were so small and strange. Azelma, showing none of the same hesitation, peered at it with great curiosity.

"Enjolras, its skin is all dark. It's a little black baby."

"It is."

"Why?"

It was too much. Enjolras sank to the ground and began to laugh hysterically. It was easier to laugh than cry, after all, and right now, he felt that he had to do one or the other. Azelma looked at him in concern.

"Are you all right?"

Enjolras wanted to say something, he did, but he couldn't catch his breath, and now there seemed to be tears streaming down his face, which was really most inconvenient. The world faded out around him, subsumed by the feeling of _too much_ that wouldn't cease no matter how hard he tried.

This happened sometimes. His parents had called it hysterics, and had locked him in his room whenever it happened, and Felix always tried to beat it out of him, but truthfully, he really didn't know what it was. He didn't have occasion to wonder about it now, as he was too absorbed in the moment.

Dimly, he was aware of someone taking the baby, and a kind hand guiding him into the house. It was only after a few minutes that he came back to reality to find himself on his bed, with Matelote bending over him in concern.

"You wore yourself out, dearie, that's what's happened. It must be that time of the month for you, or maybe you're getting sick. You need to take better care of yourself, you really do!"

Enjolras didn't think he'd worn himself out. It was the opposite, really. If he had more to do, maybe his brain wouldn't overheat in this way. He couldn't tell this to Matelote, though, so he just nodded, trying not to look weak.

"Where is the baby?" he asked. "Did you bring it inside?"

"Yes, Gibelotte is taking care of him right now. But where on earth did you get him? A little black baby in the garden. What on earth?"

"I don't know."

Enjolras frowned, trying to guess at the answer to this puzzle. Most likely, the baby had belonged to a poor working mother, too destitute to care for it herself. She had probably put it in the garden in hopes that he would take it in and care for it with all the privilege that his station allowed. It wasn't a bad idea, really. If he had been in such a situation, it was not inconceivable that he might have done the same thing.

"We should take care of it," he said. "The poor thing evidently needs a home, and that is something that we can provide."

"Yes." Matelote paused carefully. "But your husband, my dear. What will he have to say about it?"

Enjolras knew exactly what Felix would have to say about it. He could practically hear the screaming and feel the blows against his skin. Felix would be angry, no doubt about it. But was that any excuse to deprive this poor child of help?

"We can keep him until my husband returns," he said. "By then, maybe we can find another place for him to stay."

Matelote didn't seem convinced, but she didn't say anything else, just pursed her lips and turned to the closet.

"Your dress is all covered in grass stains," she said. "Let me help you change."

Enjolras allowed her to help him into another dress and fix his hair. He had long since ceased to protest that he could dress himself; Matelote loved to help him, and would never be dissuaded. She knew how dreary his life was, and she seemed to think that his beauty was the only weapon he had in the constant battle for survival. He mostly agreed with this, and though he still felt bad to make her play dress-up with him, he couldn't disagree with the results. Certainly, it was reassuring to have her on his side.

She was just putting the finishing touches on his coiffure when Gibelotte came in, all a-flutter. Granted, she was usually all a-flutter, but right now, it was much worse than usual.

"Police," she said, twisting her hands together in anguish. "There's police at your door, Miss Angelica!"

Enjolras had asked her not to call him this, but Felix had overridden his requests. Now, even while he was temporarily out of his husband's reach, Enjolras couldn't expect to be called by his proper name.

"Police?" Matelote crossed herself. "This is trouble, sure enough. What do they want?"

"I don't know. They're asking for you, Miss Angelica."

"All right."

Enjolras stood up and calmly left the room, much to the astonishment of Matelote and Gibelotte. They were afraid of authority and anyone with the power to harm them, and to some extent he was, too, but he had never been one to back down from a challenge. So the police were here. So what? He could handle a few uniformed control freaks.

He went to the sitting room where Gibelotte said they would be, and walked in with all the dignity he could. Sure enough, there were two police officers there, sitting rather stiffly on the floral-printed couch. As soon as he came in, they stood.

"Hello," said the taller one. His name tag read _J. Javert_. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, but we have some questions."

"Of course." Enjolras sat down and gestured for them to join him. "Please ask me anything you want."

"All right." Javert gave him a level glance, all business now. "Is it true that you are harboring an unknown child in your house?"

Enjolras didn't know how the news of his ad hoc adoption had gotten out so quickly, but he answered with a simple "Yes."

"Where did you get this child?"

"I found him in my garden."

The officers didn't look convinced, but they nodded all the same. Javert turned to his companion.

"Go get the suspect."

"What? Suspect?" Enjolras fixed Javert with his best steely look, even as the other officer left the room. "Sir, what is going on here?"

"We have apprehended a suspect," said Javert, which really didn't illuminate much. Enjolras frowned at him.

"I don't understand. Why are you bringing this suspect to me?"

"I have reason to believe that he is the one who put the baby in your garden."

Enjolras didn't know what to say to this. He had no idea how Javert could know this, or how they had caught the suspect in such a short amount of time. So he sat quietly and waited until the other police officer brought him into the room.

Upon seeing the suspect, Enjolras understood at least how they had caught him. He was thin, and he looked sick and exhausted. His eyes were defeated, as if he had accepted that something terrible was going to happen, but he couldn't really find it in himself to care. Enjolras knew that look very well. It was the same one that he'd worn on his wedding day. Maybe that was why he stood up and went to clasp the man by the hand.

"My dear, how are you? I haven't seen you in weeks and now you come to me in police custody? This is a fine turn of events."

The man started in surprise, but fortunately, he went along with Enjolras's fiction.

"I apologize, my friend. I seem to have gotten myself into a problem."

"It is no problem." Enjolras turned to the police officers. "I think there has been some misunderstanding here."

"Ma'am." Javert shifted uncomfortably, obviously hesitant to contradict whom he thought was a high-class lady, but eager to do his duty to the law.

"This man is a suspect," broke in the other officer. "Can he really be a friend of yours?"

"He is." Enjolras drew himself up to his full height (which admittedly wasn't very tall), shoulders back and head up. "I thank you for doing your best to keep the peace. However, I can handle things from here."

Something in his tone must have convinced the officers, because they nodded and took their leave, murmuring a faint apology for intruding upon his time.

Now left alone, Enjolras gestured to the man to sit down. He did, though he now looked wary, as if he was afraid that this was a trap.

"Not that I don't appreciate it," he said. "But you and I know very well that we have never met in our lives. What's your angle here, miss?"

Enjolras shrugged. "I have no angle. I just didn't think you deserved to be hauled into police custody."

"Why not? You don't know what I've done."

"What have you done?"

"It's awful." The man took a deep, shuddering breath. "I've left my child alone in a garden. Now he's gone forever."

The man's name was Feuilly, and he was 26 years old. He had been living in Harlem with his boyfriend Combeferre, but when Combeferre had left him, he had been evicted, and had had to wander, sick and broken-hearted, until…

"I acquired the baby," said Feuilly, glancing off to the side. Enjolras gave him a look.

"Tell me."

"It's difficult to explain." Feuilly tugged at his ear and scratched at his hair, nervous and uncomfortable. "I don't think you would understand, miss."

"All right." Enjolras knew there was no good in prying. He respected people's secrets as much as he could. "Let me tell you something of my own, then."

Feuilly looked at him in cautious curiosity. "What is it?"

Enjolras told him. He was never one to mince words, and he thought he could trust this man. True, they had met under questionable circumstances, but there was something about him that spoke to Enjolras's heart. Definitely, he thought, they were kindred spirits.

"And so, my appearance is deceiving," he finished. "I may wear dresses and heels, but I am a man, and I always have been. Society's malefactions should not determine our worth."

Feuilly's eyes sparkled. "Enjolras," he said. "I have never been a believer in luck or chance, but I know as sure as the sun shines that some higher power has brought me to your door today. You see, you and I are two of a kind."

For a second, Enjolras didn't know what he meant. But as soon as he realized, he sat up straight, eyes lit with excitement.

"Really? I had no idea!"

Feuilly nodded. "Yes. And as such, the baby is my own."

"You poor man." Enjolras clucked his tongue in sympathy. "It must be so hard."

Feuilly gave him a rueful grin. "Well, it's not easy."

"All right!" Enjolras clapped his hands, decisive. Finally, here was something he could do. "Feuilly," he said. "Why don't you stay with me? You and your baby both."

"But I don't have the baby," Feuilly explained patiently, though with an edge of hurt. "I left him in a garden. Please, Enjolras, don't make fun of me like this."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Sometimes my thoughts move faster than my mouth. Your baby is here. It was my garden that you left him in. I think that's why the police brought you to me."

Feuilly was silent, transfixed. Then, he spoke in an awestruck whisper.

"Can it really be true? I know now that it is indeed the case that a miracle has brought me here. How else could such a thing be?"

Enjolras smiled and stood. He extended his hand to Feuilly, and Feuilly took it. For the second time, they were connected. Something was growing here, something important, and they both knew it. In this moment, their worlds were beginning to change.


	5. Chapter 5

Joly and Bossuet let Combeferre stay at their house for three months without asking any questions. They knew that he needed time to heal, and they were willing to give it to him. But eventually, when his laughter became a little more genuine, and his eyes stopped looking so haunted, they sat him down to have a talk.

"Listen," said Joly, over fresh glasses of beer and pieces of toast. "Combeferre, you know we love you dearly, but the time has come for us to discuss this."

Combeferre had known this was coming, but he still groaned in disappointment. "Do we have to?"

"Yes, we do. All right, so listen here. You know we're always here for you no matter what, don't you? We won't judge you for anything you tell us."

"I know, but…"

"Yes, yes." Bossuet took a sip of beer. "We quite understand, so please tell us what's going on."

Combeferre knew he had no choice. Bossuet and Joly would get it out of him somehow, so he might as well tell his story now. He sighed extravagantly again, just to show how difficult it was (they seemed remarkably unsympathetic) and began.

It didn't take long for him to outline his troubles. Bossuet and Joly were good listeners, and they didn't interrupt him, so he had soon reached the end of his tale.

"I know this is what I have to do," he said. "But sometimes I feel like I will never recover from the pain."

Bossuet and Joly shared a look. Then, Joly laid a hand on his. "I don't want to sound judgmental, but I think you are making a mistake."

"I am not. I know this."

"No, no." Now it was Bossuet's turn to take his hand. "Listen, my friend. The love you shared with Feuilly was real. And clearly, you love him still. It would be a shame to let that go, when the problems you face can be easily overcome. You must find him and win him back!"

"He would never have me," Combeferre sighed. "I have broken his heart and left him to raise our child on his own."

Joly smiled at him. "Don't give up hope. Love is an amazing thing. I believe that what you two had was special, and I believe it is strong enough to withstand even this."

"Your pain is proof," added Bossuet. "You would not hurt so much if your love were not so real."

Combeferre shook his head. "This may be, but how could I subject him to this life? I can't make him as happy as he deserves."

"I think you can," said Joly. "After all, what makes him happy is being with you."

"Go find him," urged Bossuet. "Win him back. I know you can do it."

Combeferre didn't share this optimism, but he missed Feuilly to an almost unbearable degree, and he thought there would be no harm in visiting him, at least. After that, only time would tell.

It wasn't easy to find out where Feuilly had gone, but eventually Combeferre learned that he was staying with the so-called "Belle of New Rochelle," one Angelica Tholomyes. Combeferre was surprised to learn this, as he had never known Feuilly to talk to rich strangers, let alone ask to live with them. Maybe heartbreak had changed him.

It took Combeferre almost a week to prepare himself for the visit. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect, so Feuilly would at least listen to him as he begged for forgiveness. Anything more than that was too much to hope for, but at least he could explain things a little, and apologize. Accordingly, he bought new clothes and prepared innumerable scenarios, which he practiced with Bossuet and Joly. He even went so far as to buy a new car, which was perhaps a little too much, but he justified his purchase with the fact that he needed a fancy ride if he was going to make a good impression in New Rochelle. Finally, though, he couldn't procrastinate any more, so that Sunday afternoon, he spruced himself up and got in his car to begin the drive uptown.

People stared at him as he made his way through the streets of the city. He supposed they weren't used to seeing anyone who wasn't white. It made him wonder about Feuilly's new home– was his new household as blatant in its mistrust as everyone around it? He wouldn't have thought that Feuilly would stay with someone who was prejudiced against him, but maybe desperation had driven him to it.

If Combeferre was being honest with himself, he was afraid to go to the Tholomyes house. However, this was nothing compared to the nervousness he felt about meeting Feuilly.

It was easy enough to find the house. It was one of the biggest ones in the neighborhood, after all, and it sat on the corner of the two busiest streets like a monument to wealth. Combeferre snorted as he parked in the excessively-long driveway. Such pretension. He got out of his car and went up to the enormous double doors to ring the bell.

He didn't have to wait long before the door opened to reveal a slight golden-haired figure in a white house dress. Nervous as he was, Combeferre only caught the general impression of long-lashed bluebell eyes, an aura of sweetness and delicacy, and a high, dulcet voice like bells on the wind. Never in his life had he met anyone so beautiful. No doubt about it, this was Angelica Tholomyes. He took a deep breath and straightened himself up. This was the moment he'd been preparing for.

Enjolras was surprised to see someone on his doorstep, especially a man of color. Usually, no one came to New Rochelle besides people who already lived there. He had no idea who this man was, but he looked kind and genuine, and was probably not one of Felix's cronies, so he bowed in greeting.

"Hello, sir. What can I do for you?"

His visitor nodded politely. "Hello," he said. "I've heard that a man named Feuilly is staying with you?"

"Yes!" Enjolras smiled at him, eyes bright. "Are you here to visit?"

"I am. Would you tell him that Combeferre is here to see him?"

"Certainly." Enjolras stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. "Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. I will tell him right now."

He disappeared upstairs, leaving his guest to his own devices in the front room. Probably it wasn't very polite to leave him alone like this, but there was no one else in the house besides Azelma, and he wasn't about to unleash her on his unlucky guest, so there was nothing he could do.

Wondering about this turn of events and what it could mean for his future and Feuilly's, he hurried over to the guest room and rapped on the door.

"Feuilly?"

"Come in."

Enjolras pushed open the door and came inside. Feuilly was lying on the bed as usual, looking up at the ceiling. The poor man. Enjolras was struck by a wave of sympathy and affection.

"Feuilly, my dear," he said, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed. "There is someone here to see you. Would you like to go down?"

Feuilly sat up. His eyes were burning. "What? Who is it?"

"Oh." Enjolras drew back a little in surprise. Why was Feuilly so serious? He would have thought that a visitor would be welcome. "It's a man," he said. "His name is Combeferre. He's very handsome!"

"Combeferre? Are you sure?"

Feuilly's voice was horribly strained. It sounded like he was holding back tears. Enjolras took his hand.

"Well, yes. Who is he?"

"No one of importance. Just an old friend." Feuilly squeezed Enjolras's hand, a little too tightly to be convincingly calm. "Would you mind telling him that I'm not up to receiving visitors today?"

"Yes, certainly, if you're sure."

"I am."

"All right." Enjolras gave him a side-armed hug and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Try to rest a bit, if you can. I'll call you later for dinner."

He left, shutting the door on the way out. This was a puzzle indeed! It was understandable that Feuilly didn't feel like entertaining, especially if his guest was someone from his past life, but the way he'd reacted had been a little strong. Was this man connected in some way with his ex-boyfriend? But, he had seemed so sincere and well-meaning. Enjolras couldn't figure it out.

He made his way into the front room, terribly disappointed. Of course, he understood, but it was a pity for Feuilly and Combeferre not to meet; probably, it would have been good for both of them. As if sensing his thoughts, Combeferre stood up to meet him as soon as he entered the room.

"How did it go?"

Enjolras winced. "I'm so sorry. Feuilly isn't up to receiving visitors today."

Combeferre's face fell by degrees, sloping down until it was all misery. He nodded, looking as if the bottom had dropped out of his world, and turned to go. Driven to pity by the sight of his despair, Enjolras caught his arm.

"Please, don't give up! Feuilly is in a bad place right now, so it's hard for him to open up. But this is when he needs friends more than ever. Maybe if you were to come back…?"

Combeferre stopped. Enjolras could tell that he was thinking hard. He was afraid that he would give up anyway, too disappointed to persevere, but after a minute, he nodded and squared his shoulders.

"Thank you, ma'am. Then, with your permission, I will be back next Sunday."

—

It became something of a routine. Enjolras would come back from church, prepare lunch, then wait for the inevitable ring that signaled Combeferre's arrival. They never spoke much, but it was still one of the bright spots of his day. He didn't have many visitors beyond Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Jehan, and Sundays were always dreary, since he had no one to visit and nowhere to go. So Combeferre and his weekly visitation became something for him to anticipate the whole week through.

Feuilly still refused to come down. He was too hurt, too desperately sad to want to visit with anyone besides Enjolras. He couldn't even hold his baby without crying. So for him to visit with the man who had put him through all this– that was just too much.

He chose not to tell Enjolras who Combeferre really was, though, referring to him simply as an old friend. Enjolras believed this easily, strangely gullible as he was in some ways. Feuilly half wanted to relieve him of the misconception, but in the end, he always talked himself out of it. What did it matter, anyway?

Enjolras, blissfully unaware of all this, began at some point to think of Combeferre as his friend. Even though they barely talked, he was sure that they had the potential to become close if they tried. Why else would his visits light up the house so much? Even if this was all the contact they ever had, it was making his life all the better.

He didn't know it, but Combeferre felt the same. Although his first priority was seeing Feuilly, he was now happy to greet Enjolras as well. Somehow, the little golden-haired waif had grown in his affections, and become much more than a pretty face to answer the door. Someday, he was sure, they would speak for real, and when they did, it would be an instant connection.

—

It was a swelteringly hot Sunday in July, and Enjolras was feeling restless. One of Felix's friends had made a crass comment to him in church that day, within earshot of Azelma, and he was still bubbling with resentment and the need for company. So, when Combeferre came, and Feuilly refused to come down as always, Enjolras took a breath, and let himself speak.

"Sir," he said. "It's very hot outside. Would you like to stay for awhile and drink some lemonade before you go?"

Combeferre smiled, barely able to believe this turn of fortune. "If you don't mind, I would love to intrude on your hospitality just a bit more."

That afternoon, Enjolras and Combeferre drank lemonade and talked about their lives. There was never a silent moment between them. Instead, their words overlapped and bounced as they tried to make up for lost time in getting to know each other. Never before had Enjolras found someone to whom he could talk so easily. Their conversation was invigorating; the more they talked, the more he wanted to talk. In that moment, he thought he was perfectly happy.

Combeferre, too, was having a wonderful time. Enjolras was the most intelligent person he had ever met, and the most charming besides. He wondered why they had never talked before this. It was clear that their souls were closely aligned. All his troubles and worries faded to the back of his mind as the two of them chattered away, so that by the time he had to leave, he felt as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders. Surely, everything would be all right now.

Summer faded into autumn, and Combeferre continued to visit. By now, Enjolras had introduced him to Courfeyrac, Cosette, Jehan, and Marius, and he in turn had brought Joly and Bossuet to the house. Soon, all of them had become great friends. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras in particular, loved to spend time in each others' company. Their friends joked that they had become a triumvirate of sorts, and they couldn't argue. They were, by now, quite inseparable.

One afternoon, as they all lounged and waited for dinner, Courfeyrac asked Cosette and Enjolras to sing a duet. They both had lovely voices, and in fact had practiced together on occasion, but until now, they had been too shy to let the others hear. It was impossible to say no to Courfeyrac, though, so eventually, giggling and nudging each other, they went to the piano and began to sing one of the art songs they had practiced.

The others were captivated. Enjolras's sweet soubrette voice blended perfectly with Cosette's lovely coloratura, dipping and soaring in turn, floating along merrily, trilling into the sweetest harmony. Even Bossuet, who was all but tone deaf, tapped his foot and nodded along in pleasure. After a few minutes, Combeferre got up and went over to the piano.

"I think I figured it out now. Start from the chorus, and I'll accompany you."

Cosette and Enjolras squealed with delight and started anew. They were, perhaps, not the easiest to follow, but Combeferre was a professional. He quickly picked up on Enjolras's tendency to rush and Cosette's propensity to add in notes, accounted for these, and created such a beautiful harmony that Marius was in tears by the end of the song.

He was not the only one. Upstairs, unseen by the others, Feuilly was sobbing into his pillow. He missed Combeferre so much, and the sound of the piano had only made things worse. Maybe it was too late now, but he had to see him.

He got up, dried his tears, and made his way to the staircase. Enjolras and the others were all laughing and talking together down below, paying no attention to anything but their own merriment. He could still turn back, and they would never know.

He would have, maybe, but at that moment, Azelma shrieked and pointed up at him. "Enjolras, look! It's Feuilly!"

"Feuilly?" Enjolras craned his neck to look up the staircase. When he saw Feuilly, he broke into a wide, brilliant smile. "Oh, Feuilly! Come down and join us, my dear. We've been missing you."

There was no hope for it now. Feuilly came downstairs, feeling horribly awkward. He knew Joly somewhat, but the rest of them were unfamiliar. It was all he could do to match names to faces. So, although he didn't know if he wanted to, he ended up focusing on Combeferre.

It was the longest walk of his life. Even he didn't know what he would do when he reached Combeferre. Should he smile? Nod? Fall weeping into his arms (as he wanted to do)? In the end, he just inclined his head gravely and stuck out his hand.

"Combeferre," he said.

"Feuilly."

Combeferre took his hand and squeezed it. He didn't say anything else, but he didn't need to. It was all in his eyes. Feuilly tried to hold himself back for one more second, but he couldn't do it. With a cry, he launched himself at Combeferre and held on tightly, words pouring out about how much he had missed him and how happy he was now. Combeferre held him, steady and strong as always, with only his ragged breathing betraying how close he was to tears.

Meanwhile, Enjolras was having something of a revelation. So Combeferre was the one who had broken Feuilly's heart! It made sense now that he thought about it, but he wasn't sure what to do now. Had he been disloyal to Feuilly in befriending Combeferre? He was halfway to a crisis when Courfeyrac put a gentle hand on his arm and led him over to the couch.

"It's all right," he said. "You didn't know."

Enjolras leaned against him and allowed himself to be comforted. This was Feuilly and Combeferre's moment, after all. He didn't want to steal it in any way.

By dinner time, everyone had gotten introduced to Feuilly, and had fallen in love with him. He was shy at first, but he was so happy that he had no urge to run away or hide, and so he soon began to show his true, lovable personality.

Enjolras thought he had never been so happy. Here were all his friends in the same place, getting along beautifully. And there was Feuilly, holding Combeferre's hand, practically glowing. It was a beautiful sight. Enjolras wished he had the artistic sense to capture it forever.

Everyone had gone to the drawing room for some after-dinner brandy and cognac, and Courfeyrac was just starting to urge Combeferre to play for them, when the doorbell rang. Enjolras smiled at the others, told them he would be right back, and went to open it. He didn't know who it could be, but he was feeling so relaxed and happy that he didn't mind. Nothing bad could happen with his friends assembled in the other room. Still smiling, he pulled open the door, ready to greet whoever was on the other side.

And then,

"Hello, wife. I've heard some things happened while I was away."

Enjolras thought he was going to faint. The house felt cold all of a sudden, much too cold, and there was an insistent ringing in his ears. Reality had come knocking once again. Felix was back.

Enjolras was taking quite a long time in answering the door. Courfeyrac wanted to sneak off and see who it was, just to make sure there wasn't any trouble. Cosette managed to dissuade him from doing so, but he insisted on scooting his chair closer to the still-open doorway of the drawing room so he could eavesdrop better.

"Do you think it's the police again?" asked Feuilly. "Maybe they've brought another suspect."

"If so, I don't doubt that Enjolras will adopt them," replied Jehan easily.

Everyone laughed, but quickly grew silent again as Courfeyrac held his finger to his lips.

"Whoever it is is shouting at Enjolras."

"What?" Combeferre straightened up. He was a naturally protective person, and he didn't like the idea of anyone shouting at his best friend. The others looked grave.

"Should we go out there?" asked Jehan. "I wonder if there's a problem."

Courfeyrac was considering this, when he heard Enjolras cry out as if in pain. Immediately, he jumped to his feet.

"Something's happening. I'm going out."

No one needed to be told twice. They stood as a body and surged out of the room to see what was the matter.

In the front room, just below the staircase, Enjolras stood leaning on the railing and holding his face as if he'd just been hit. In front of him was a singularly unpleasant-looking man dressed in a fur-lined parka. The others had never seen him before, but they could tell just by looking at him that he was a thoroughly disagreeable person. No doubt about it, this was Enjolras's husband Felix.

Being the whitest and most respectable-looking out of all his friends, Courfeyrac thought he would make the best impression on this awful man, so he stepped forward and got between him and Enjolras.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "What is going on here?"

Felix turned on him, glaring hard under his bushy eyebrows. "What's going on, sir, is between me and my wife, and is none of your business."

"Courfeyrac, please don't worry," interposed Enjolras, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Felix is right, you don't have to mix yourself up in this."

Felix turned on him. "Shut up, woman. No one asked you to speak, did they?"

Now Cosette came forward. She looped an arm around Enjolras's waist, kind and comforting. "Are you all right?"

"None of that!" Felix glared and practically shook his fist in her direction. "What are you all doing here, anyway?"

"We're guests," said Courfeyrac. "Enjolras invited us."

Apparently, this hadn't been a wise thing to say. Felix shook with anger, glaring at all of them, and especially at Enjolras.

"Angelica, what is the meaning of this? You know I don't want you entertaining anyone without me. You've directly disobeyed me. And who are these people? What a distasteful group!"

Cosette could feel Enjolras straighten up against her. His eyes blazed, and his voice was hard.

"Don't you dare say another word against them. These people are my friends, and they're wonderful, every single one. I won't hear you disrespecting them!"

Felix strode forward. Before any of the others could stop him, or even figure out what was happening, he had slapped Enjolras across the mouth, hard.

"Don't talk back to me," he growled. "You've gotten uppity while I was away. You need to learn your place. Go upstairs and wait for me in the bedroom while I get this rabble out of my house."

Enjolras looked at him with wide, fearful eyes. He wanted to argue, to stay and defend his friends, but he was too afraid. It had been such a shock to see Felix and jump back into normal life with him, and he had no strength left. Hating himself more with each second, he turned and went upstairs to await whatever Felix had planned.


	6. Chapter 6

Times were getting worse for Eponine, Gavroche, and Grantaire. Work was demanding, and the concerns of daily life were worse. Barely a day went by when Grantaire and Eponine wouldn't finish a bottle each of whatever cheap corner-shop booze they could find, trying to drink themselves into enough of a stupor that they could forget their pain and sleep. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but no matter what, it was only a temporary cure at best. Each new sunrise heralded in another day of drudgery for them all.

To make matters worse, Gavroche had developed pneumonia from the cold, dank apartment, and the lack of nourishing food. Grantaire and Eponine did their best to help, but there was only so much they could do, especially when they were both half-ill themselves.

Their friend, the boisterous yet kindhearted Bahorel, who lived in slightly better conditions just up the street, would often stop by with a pot of soup or a kettle of tea that he claimed he had no use for, and they didn't want to accept as they knew he really didn't have much to spare, but it was probably all that was keeping Gavroche even slightly healthy, so ducking their heads and murmuring in embarrassment, they would let him help.

Bahorel wasn't the only one who noticed their condition. Musichetta, who had somehow learned where they lived, now stopped by on a semi-regular basis to chat with Eponine and Grantaire and give Gavroche some kind of pastry or treat. She never tried to offer money, perhaps feeling that it would be disrespectful, and it was just as well because they probably would have refused if she had. But her presence was cheering, even if it was hard to get the energy to visit with her sometimes. Both Eponine and Grantaire became grudgingly grateful to have her in their life.

It was a sunny summer Sunday, one of Grantaire and Eponine's few days off. They had been planning to spend it resting, but Musichetta and Bahorel (who were good friends by now) had dropped by, asking them to go to one of Musichetta's rallies on workers' rights, and they had gone, not because they had any faith in the cause, but because it was a nice day, and Gavroche needed the fresh air.

Musichetta had gone ahead, but Bahorel took charge of Gavroche (who regarded him as a hero and hung on his every word) and let Eponine and Grantaire take some much-needed time for themselves while they waited for the rally to start. Grantaire sketched with a stub of charcoal and a sheaf of old letter bills, while Eponine sat in the sun and hummed to herself, remembering repertoire from a decade past. For the first time in a long time, neither of them felt the need for a drink.

And then, the rally started.

Right from the start it was clear that it was not going to be a civil one. The crowd barely quieted down enough to hear Musichetta speak, no matter how commanding she made herself. Soon enough, fists were flying, and people were screaming, and there was scuffling all along the street. At some point, the police came in, shouting and hitting people with their clubs and generally adding to the chaos.

Grantaire and Eponine had been to a handful of rallies before, but never any as violent as this. They clutched Gavroche close to them, and tried to search for the best way out, civic duty be damned. The last thing any of them needed was to be injured.

They had almost reached the edge of the crowd, when it happened. A stray fist, flung out by some careless rioter, struck Gavroche in the side of the head, and he went down with a cry. Grantaire shrieked and Eponine went pale and Bahorel stopped in his tracks to punch everyone who could possibly have been responsible, and Gavroche, who was unhurt, really, besides being frightened and a little scraped up, took advantage of the confusion to pull them out of the bustle, into safety. Once out of the crowd, they ducked onto a side street and collapsed there, trying to get their breath back.

Eponine put her arm around Gavroche, openly affectionate in a way that she didn't often allow herself to be. "Are you all right, little lion?"

"I'm all right."

"Good." Eponine smiled reassuringly, but she noticed that he was still pale, and so she nudged Grantaire. "Do you still have your paper and pencil?"

Grantaire held up his art supplies, somehow still undamaged. "Yes, for all the good it does us."

"It _is_ good." Eponine flipped to a clean piece of paper and pointed to it. "Draw something for Gavroche. It'll be a good way for him to calm down."

"Oh."

Grantaire had done this before, when he had the supplies. Gavroche liked his drawings and the little stories he made to go with them, and in the darkest hours of his all-too frequent illnesses, they would be one of the only ways that Grantaire had to calm him. He was surprised he hadn't thought of this earlier. He began to sketch quickly, and talked as he sketched.

"Once upon a time, there was a little boy who loved to ice skate. He had a dream of going to the most famous ice skating rink in the world, and skating there."

Gavroche sat up and looked closer. Grantaire finished his sketch and turned the page.

"The little boy saved all his money for a long time. He had to work every day, and it was very hard. But finally, he had enough money to go."

He turned another page. Gavroche was listening closely now.

"Unfortunately, he lived far away from the ice skating rink. It was much too far to walk, and he didn't have a car to drive. What could he do? He had to get there somehow! But there seemed to be no way."

"No way," repeated Gavroche solemnly. Grantaire nodded, flipping the next page.

"He didn't know what to do. But then, an idea came to him. He would find someone who was going there already, and get a ride with them."

"Don't do that, by the way," warned Eponine. "It's very dangerous."

Gavroche huffed. "I know that!"

"Good." Grantaire turned the next page. "Now, the little boy didn't know anyone with a car, except the richest woman in the city. She was a very kind woman, and what's more, she loved ice skating. The little boy thought it was likely that she would like to go to the ice rink too. So he went to ask her if she would drive him there."

"What did she say?"

Grantaire smiled, pleased that his story was going over so well. "She said yes. She was glad to go to the ice rink with him. So they went together, and finally, finally, the boy was able to make his dream come true." He flipped one last page, the last one in his stack of papers, and started drawing frantically. "They skated together for a long time, and both of them were so happy. Everyone there was impressed by how good they looked, and they said they were welcome to come back any time. And they said they would, and they did. So, whenever they wanted to, they went back to skate– just like this."

Grantaire flipped the pages back and forth, creating the illusion of motion. The silhouettes of a boy and a woman skated across the paper, back and forth. Gavroche clapped in excitement.

"It's amazing!"

"It surely is," came an unfamiliar voice. Grantaire and Eponine whirled around in alarm.

"Who's there?"

A plump, plum-cheeked woman in a green dress came into view, arm in arm with a white-haired old man. They were both smiling genially.

"I'm sorry to scare you, dearie," said the woman. "And I'm sorry to bother you. But Mr. Mabeuf and I, we just had to stop and listen to your story! We've never seen anything like what you're doing."

"Indeed," agreed the man, whose name must have been Mr. Mabeuf. "This book of yours, it's a remarkable invention. What do you call it?"

Grantaire had never thought about a name. It had never occurred to him. Now, he was stuck.

"Well, uh…"

"It's a photoplay book," cut in Eponine, with the smile that had melted hearts all across Latvia once upon a time. Mr. Mabeuf looked impressed.

"A photoplay book, is it? May I see?"

Grantaire was about to hand it over, but Eponine halted him with the subtlest of gestures.

"It's a dollar and a half to buy, sir."

"A dollar and a half?" Mr. Mabeuf dug into his wallet and pulled out two silver coins. "Here are two. We had the privilege of hearing your story, and that's worth the extra fifty cents."

Eponine took the money, all charm and suave smiles. "We appreciate your kindness."

"And we appreciate your talent."

With a few more pleasantries, the couple moved away, and Eponine and Grantaire were left to stare at each other in wonder over the two coins left in Eponine's hand.

"If I'm not mistaken," said Grantaire slowly. "We just made two dollars for nothing."

Gavroche tugged at his sleeve. "My pictures, though! They took them!"

"Don't worry, little man." Eponine ruffled his hair, smiling in a way that Grantaire hadn't seen since before she'd stopped singing. "If I'm not mistaken, in a short time, you'll have all the pictures you could ever want."

/

M. Lamarque, the most popular presidential candidate at the moment, was coming to New Rochelle to speak. He was well-respected, especially by those with a democratic turn of mind, and Enjolras and his friends venerated him. They all had made plans to go and see him, and at first, it had been assumed that Enjolras would be part of the group, but none of the others one seen him for months now. According to Marius, Felix barely let him out of the house, so it was extremely unlikely that he would be able to find a way to meet them and go to the rally.

The others were despondent. Their group just wasn't the same, lacking a certain fiery presence. But, they didn't want to get Enjolras into an even worse situation by showing up and angering Felix, so reluctantly, they had to let it go.

The day of the rally dawned bright and clear. Feuilly, who was still staying in New Rochelle, came with Marius to meet their friends at their favorite cafe. Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Jehan were there already, as were Joly and Bossuet. Combeferre, however, was missing. The others were surprised, as they knew he was still living with Joly and Bossuet, but Joly explained that he had been gone before they had gotten up, and without any way to contact him, they had just come to the meeting place in hopes that he would arrive.

Everyone was beginning to give up hope of seeing Combeferre, when the door opened, and he came in, hand-in-hand with none other than Enjolras. His glasses were crooked and Enjolras looked rather the worse for wear, but they were both smiling.

"We're here!" called Enjolras.

The others flocked to their side to embrace them. It was a relief to see them here, even though it was definitely worrisome to see Enjolras in such a state. Joly touched one of the new bruises on his cheek with delicate fingers.

"Does this hurt?"

"Well obviously it hurts when you poke at it," replied Enjolras waspishly.

The others laughed, but it was strained. They were hurting too, seeing their friend like this. Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre, partially to talk to him, and partially so he didn't have to look at those awful bruises anymore.

"Were you the one who got him out of the house?"

Combeferre nodded, looking pleased with himself. "I enlisted the help of Azelma. She's really quite a clever child. And Matelote and Gibelotte were anxious to lend their aid as well. It seems that almost everyone in the household wants to see Enjolras happy."

The _almost_ hung heavily in the air. Jehan clucked in sympathy, and Cosette took Enjolras's hand in her own.

"We, too, wish to see you happy," she said.

Enjolras thought he might cry. What had he ever done to deserve these lovely friends of his? He squeezed Cosette's hand and smiled at the rest of the group with as much spirit as he could muster.

"What would make me happy is going to the rally with all of you. I think it will start soon, too, so let's go! I don't want to miss a thing."

The rally was packed. It seemed like everyone in the city had turned out to hear Lamarque speak. Combeferre, who had been to such events before, led them all to a spot near the front, so they wouldn't miss a word. This was a good idea in theory, but it meant that they had to wade through hordes of people. Before he knew it, Enjolras had gotten separated from the group and was being tossed about in the crowd, totally lost.

For the thousandth time, he cursed his small size. If only he had been born as tall as Combeferre, or as wide as Bossuet! Now, he thought he might very well be in danger of being thrown to the ground and stepped on.

No sooner had he thought this, than a hard elbow smacked into him, and he went tumbling, knocked completely off his feet. He was sure that this would be the end of him, but before he could be hurt, a strong arm caught him by the waist and set him aright.

"Careful there, little lady."

Enjolras looked up at his rescuer. It was a man, probably ten or twelve years older than himself, with the most striking face he had ever seen. He wasn't handsome in the traditional sense of the word, no, but Enjolras loved how he looked. He thought he could gaze at him forever, caught in the spell of those beautiful eyes.

Belatedly, he realized that he needed to say something. He'd been staring for a couple seconds now, and that was rude. But his mind had gone blank, transfixed.

"Thank you," he blurted out, hardly sure of what he was saying. "But I'm not a lady. I'm a man."

"Is that so?" The man's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Beg your pardon, then, Mr…?"

"Enjolras. Call me Enjolras."

"Good to meet you, Enjolras." The man inclined his head, deferential, though he really had no reason to be so polite. "I'm Grantaire."

Enjolras's head was swimming in the best way possible. "I'm glad to meet you as well," he said. "And I must thank you again for saving me."

"It was nothing. Still, though, I'm glad you're all right. This is a dangerous place for someone as small as you. Are you alone?"

Enjolras shook his head. "I came with my friends. But I seem to have lost them in the crowd."

"Ah, I see. We're in the same situation, then."

A bolt of hope shot through Enjolras's chest. This was as good a chance as he could hope for. "Then, would you like to stay together? As you say, it's dangerous to be alone here."

Grantaire smiled for real now. It made Enjolras's heart swoop. "I would like that very much."

Enjolras found that it was much less scary to navigate the crowds with Grantaire by his side. No one knocked him over, or made any rude comments, either, probably assuming that he and Grantaire were involved. The realization gave him a funny (and not unpleasant) feeling in his stomach. He tightened his grip on Grantaire's arm and pressed on.

Together, they pushed their way to the front of the podium (that is, Grantaire pushed, and Enjolras clung to him and followed). Neither of their groups of friends were anywhere to be seen, but Enjolras didn't mind this at all. He would meet up with his friends later, but right now, everything was dizzyingly exciting and bright and new.

Grantaire, bulky and intimidating as he was, found a prime place in the center of the front lines, and stood there, immovable, so no one could push him away. Impressed, and not a little envious, Enjolras stood by his side and tucked his hand into the crook of his elbow, trying his best not to be swept away again. Grantaire looked down at him and smiled, not making any move to break the contact between them, and within a second, Enjolras had to turn away, blushing.

What was going on with him? Was he falling in love with this man whom he'd met only moments ago? He had never put much stock in romance. In theory, he found people attractive (mostly men, though he didn't bother himself overly much with gender), but even before his marriage, he had ceased to believe that love could ever come his way. Felix had just set the final nail in the coffin of his romantic dreams.

Now, though, there was an old, almost unfamiliar feeling fluttering in his chest. It was silly, because he had barely even spoken to Grantaire; the few words they'd exchanged as they'd walked and waited for Lamarque to take the stage were not enough to get to know him in any tangible way. But still, there it was. Enjolras knew he was perfectly content to stand at Grantaire's side for as long as he could.

Enjolras was absorbed in chatting with Grantaire, but not so much that he missed Lamarque's entrance. Immediately, he was clapping, using Grantaire's arm as a sounding board, much to the other man's amusement. It would have been undignified to shout as those around him were doing, but the excitement was so great that he almost wanted to. Finally, here was his chance to see the great man, live and in person, and standing barely ten feet away.

Lamarque's very presence was electrifying. No sooner had he gotten on the podium and waved his hand for silence, than the chatter of the crowd died down to a faint buzz. He commanded respect instantly, not through force, but through a quiet dignity that said more than harsh words ever could. He was a people's man through and through; he made it seem as if he were not standing up on a pedestal at all.

He also didn't waste time. As soon as the crowd had quieted down sufficiently, he launched into his speech. It was a simple speech, concise and to the point, but not condescending, and not so plain as to be obvious. Enjolras was riveted. He had never gotten the opportunity to attend an event like this, at least not without his parents, and so far, it was turning out to be everything that he had hoped. Grantaire seemed unimpressed, but he listened politely, and waited until Lamarque was finished making his points before he contested them.

"Universal healthcare?" he scoffed at one such juncture. "And how are we going to make sure everyone has access to this universal healthcare?"

Enjolras nudged him. "He just said. We'll raise taxes."

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"No. How will we make sure that everyone has clinics to go to, or competent healthcare professionals to see? How do we ensure that no one is discriminated against? And how do we stop the upper class from taking advantage of the system to the detriment of everyone else?"

Enjolras frowned. These were good points. "Checks and balances?" he suggested. "If we implemented a standard system of protocol and had an official branch of civic service dedicated to enforcing it, wouldn't we be able to keep the whole infrastructure fairly stable?"

"I don't know about that. People tend to be a bit more lax about infrastructure when it comes to the lower classes."

"I admit, I don't have firsthand knowledge." Enjolras bit at his lip. He didn't want to be one of those people who spoke ignorantly and out of turn, presumptuously taking over discussions that didn't concern them. But… "I have faith in humanity," he said. "I don't think it's unfeasible that we could create a system to could help everyone."

"That's naively optimistic," said Grantaire, but he was smiling. Maybe, Enjolras thought, he wasn't as unconvinced as he pretended to be.

"There is nothing naive about optimism," he said. "To see all the worst in the world and still believe that a solution is possible– that is strength, not ignorance."

"Maybe it's denialism."

"Or maybe it's hope."

Grantaire and Enjolras looked at each other for a long moment. Then, just as the air began to be charged between them, they laughed.

"You have a reply for everything, don't you," said Grantaire. Enjolras smiled at him, light and playful as he seldom had occasion to be.

"Why don't you try me and see?"

Grantaire might have done just that– certainly, he looked as if he was about to– but just then, Lamarque stepped back, and a woman took the stage. Grantaire gasped sharply.

"It's Musichetta!"

"Musichetta?"

Enjolras had heard the name. He knew she was the leader of a radical branch of anarchists who advocated for equality and social change. While he didn't agree with all of her ideas (anarchy seemed a bit too far-fetched and dangerous to be viable), he respected her very much. However, this was the first time he had seen her in person.

"I first met her on the street," said Grantaire. "She tried to persuade me to join her movement."

"And did you?"

"No. I don't do much with politics, as a rule."

Enjolras frowned in bewilderment. "Then, why are you here?"

"Because we're friends now, and I would attend even a political rally for those who are dear to me."

Enjolras was spared from responding as Musichetta pounded on the podium for order and began to speak.

She was much more inflammatory than Lamarque had been. Every word was a call for action, burning, brilliant, and bold. While Lamarque was a demagogue, Musichetta was a rabble-rouser. Enjolras found himself clenching his fists as he listened, aching to leap up and fix everything that was wrong, overturn all the oppressive power structures, and free the people. Only after a long time did he realize that Grantaire was watching him with an unfathomable look on his face. He hunched in his shoulders, defensive.

"What?"

"Nothing. Or rather, it's just… you make me want to paint again."

Enjolras didn't know how to respond to this, so he didn't even try. He just turned his attention back to Musichetta to listen to the end of her speech.

It never came. Before she could begin her closing remarks, someone shouted, and a rock came flying towards the podium, barely missing her head. She didn't miss a beat, just dodged and called for order, but it was too late for that now. In an almost ridiculously short amount of time, the crowd was rioting.

Enjolras didn't know what to do. He was no stranger to violence, having lived all his life with people who beat him with no provocation, but that had always been in a controlled setting. This rowdy, crowded sort of violence was new, and he was scared.

Fortunately, Grantaire took charge of the situation. He set a protective arm around Enjolras, pulling him into the safe circle of his own body.

"We need to get out of here."

Enjolras wasn't arguing with that. The sooner he could leave this place, the better. "Where do we go?"

"My friends and I have a safe place that we use to meet up after things like this. I'll take you there, if that's all right."

Enjolras smiled up at him with all the courage he could find. "Yes. If I'm with you, I know I'll be safe."

If it weren't so ridiculous, Enjolras would say that Grantaire's eyes lit with affection. Certainly, there was a warmth in them that made Enjolras want to curl his toes and bask. It was silly, because they barely knew each other, but at the very least, Grantaire seemed to be happy to take care of him, and that was enough to set him fluttering.

"It's not far," Grantaire said now. "We can make it in five minutes. But it will be hard to get out of this crowd."

Enjolras wanted to say something cheering and optimistic, but he didn't know if he could. Already, he was feeling the stirrings of panic in his belly. He truly didn't know if he would make it out, or if something would happen and he would be swept away, never to emerge again.

Even worse, though, he didn't know if Grantaire would be able to make it to freedom. The man might be built like a brick wall, with a pugnacious attitude to match, but here he was, impeded by the charge of small, helpless Enjolras. Even the strongest person might have trouble in this situation.

"You should go," Enjolras said. "I don't want to hold you back. People won't hurt me; I'm too pretty."

He didn't really think this was true. No amount of chivalry would keep him safe here. But maybe Grantaire would believe it, and get himself to safety.

But Grantaire shook his head. "No, I'm not leaving you like this. This crowd will eat you alive."

Unfortunately, this was accurate. Enjolras knew it was only the protection of Grantaire's arms that had kept him out of harm's way up until now. One second by himself, and he would be lost.

"I don't want to hinder your escape," he protested, but it was lackluster, and they both knew it. Grantaire tightened his hold.

"Would you be offended if I picked you up?"

"No, but– "

Grantaire picked him up. It was amazing how easily he did it, quick and simple as if Enjolras weighed nothing at all.

"What was that?"

"–but I don't know if you could," Enjolras finished weakly.

How was it possible for Grantaire to be so strong? Honestly, this was stirring up some almost-forgotten feelings in him, too, but these were of a very different nature. Suddenly, he felt as if he were sixteen years old again, gazing longingly after the heavily-muscled horsemen in his parents' house. How would it be if he lifted his head just a bit, set his mouth against the bold line of Grantaire's jaw…?

No. This was unacceptable. He was a married man, eminently respectable, and not allowed to be thinking of such things. And besides, the moment was too fraught for much lusting.

"Is this all right?" he asked. "I'm not too heavy for you?"

Grantaire chuckled. "My dear, you weigh less than my coat. I could carry two of you and still not need my other arm."

Now that Grantaire mentioned it, Enjolras realized that he was indeed holding him easily with one arm only, leaving his other one free to deal with the crowd. That settled it, then. Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire's neck and held on tight.

"I'm ready whenever you are," he said.

"All right." Grantaire grinned down at him, fierce and wild. "This is going to be rough. But hold on. I'll get us through."

Without another word of warning, he plunged into the crowd. Enjolras shut his eyes tight and hid his face against the hollow of Grantaire's neck, unable to think of anything but his own fear. He wasn't overwhelmingly afraid for himself, no; he had sustained much serious injury through the years, and he didn't think this was anything he couldn't take. Even if it did prove to be too much for him, his life didn't seem like much to miss. But he was terrified for Grantaire. True, he had just met this man, but already, he cared about him deeply. If only there was some way for him to help! There was nothing he could do, though, weak and fragile as he was, so all he could do was hold on and wait.

It seemed to take years, but finally, they had escaped from the thick of the crowd. They made their way into an alley, tucked away from any dangerous eyes. Although it was quiet here, and presumably safe, Grantaire didn't set Enjolras down. He tilted his head up with a gentle hand to check for injuries, then frowned.

"You're hurt."

"Oh, no I'm not. I mean– it's not from this. My husband…"

Enjolras trailed off, feeling that he'd said too much already. His story was not one to be shared with people he had just met, even caring and attractive ones who had potentially just saved his life. Grantaire touched his cheek with surprisingly light fingers.

"You're no stranger to violence, are you," he said softly.

Enjolras shook his head, leaning into Grantaire's hand. Except for brief intervals, he hadn't been touched so kindly since Felix had come back, and it was nice. All too soon, though, Grantaire set him down, probably fearing impropriety.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

Briefly, Enjolras considered saying no so Grantaire would carry him for longer. But that would be dishonest. He nodded confidently instead.

"Of course."

Grantaire smiled at him. "Good. Then, let's go."

Enjolras took his arm, prompting another maybe-affectionate smile, and off they went, chatting lightly as they had done before.

Grantaire seemed to know exactly where he was going. He led them through the streets, and into a small, dingy cafe on the corner across from no less than three bars. Enjolras, who had never been here before and who probably wouldn't have known it if he had, held on to Grantaire and looked around him in awe. So this was it! None of the pretentious faux-living that surrounded him in New Rochelle– this was the real world.

Grantaire let him look for a few minutes, then led him inside the cafe, murmuring something about safety, and staying off the streets. He took him to a table in the corner, and gestured for him to sit down.

"The others should be here soon," he said.

They didn't have long to wait. No sooner had they engaged in a rousing conversation about the right to assembly, than the door opened and Musichetta strode in, flanked by a tall, heavyset man, and a dark-haired woman with piercing eyes. They caught sight of Grantaire immediately, and came over to the table. Grantaire and Enjolras stood up to greet them.

"Grantaire!" The man slapped him on the back, just as hearty and enthusiastic as his booming voice.

Grantaire slapped him back with good humor.

"Bahorel!"

Enjolras couldn't help but be impressed. These two men were practically giants. It made him feel very small and frail indeed.

He must have made some kind of sound, because the man turned and looked at him. "Well, I'll be damned! Who are you, little one?"

Enjolras supposed everyone looked little to him, so he accepted the choice of epithet without question. "My name's Enjolras," he said. "Grantaire saved me and brought me here."

"I met him at the rally," interposed Grantaire, smiling.

Bahorel looked him up and down, probably taking in his flouncy summer dress, high heeled shoes, and prettily beribboned curls– New Rochelle luxury from head to toe. But he didn't say a word, just nodded, reached out a huge hand, and enclosed Enjolras's small one in a bone-crushing grip.

"It's good to meet you, Enjolras."

"I'm glad to meet you too," Enjolras squeaked.

He wasn't timid by nature, but whether because of his upbringing, or because of some quirk of his personality, people made him nervous, especially ones he didn't know. Then, too, he was all too aware that each one of his new acquaintances could probably snap his neck without breaking a sweat. Right now, all he wanted to do was duck behind Grantaire and hide until they all went away.

Despite all his best efforts, he slowly began inching backwards, and Grantaire gave him a look, but the others must not have noticed, because Musichetta came over to him and grabbed his face.

"Aren't you just the cutest little thing," she cooed. "How old are you, sweet doll? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Twenty-two."

"Aww!"

Musichetta bent down and kissed him on both cheeks. For half a second, Enjolras was afraid she was going to pat him on the head, too, but fortunately she straightened up and began to speak normally.

"I'm Musichetta, in case you didn't know. I'm an anarchist. Today's rally wasn't my best work, though; it usually turns out much better than that."

Enjolras didn't know if this was true or not, since he'd never been to any of her rallies besides this one, but he nodded and tried to look polite.

"I've been following your work for awhile," he said. "I think many of your ideas are wonderful."

"Many? But not all?"

"Oh! N-no, I mean, I don't mean to offend you, I…"

"Don't scare the poor thing, 'Chetta." The other woman nudged Musichetta out of the way, and smiled at Enjolras, showing her teeth. "I'm Eponine," she said.

Enjolras ducked his head and murmured some kind of suitable response. This woman was frightening in a different way. There was something wolfish about her, something wild and dauntless. He didn't think he'd like to end up on the wrong side of her.

Seeming to notice his nervousness, Grantaire set a warm, protective hand between his shoulder blades. "Enjolras, why don't you sit down? You've been on your feet all day in those uncomfortable shoes."

Enjolras nodded. If he was sitting down, then he wouldn't have to look anyone in the eye, and he would have an easier time keeping calm. He sat down in the chair that Grantaire pulled out for him, smiling in relief when Grantaire sank down next to him and draped his arm across the back.

"Much better, no?"

"Definitely."

It _was_ better. Enjolras had no idea how Grantaire knew how to take care of him so well, first at the rally, and now here. Either he had extremely attuned powers of observation, or he could read minds. Enjolras hoped it wasn't the latter. He would be so dreadfully embarrassed.

"I'm going to go get a drink," said Musichetta, interrupting his thoughts. "Does anyone want anything?"

Grantaire raised his hand. "Gin, straight." Eponine slapped him, and he lowered his hand again. "Just joking."

"I'm trying to quit drinking," he added, for Enjolras's benefit. Eponine nodded and pointed to herself.

"Me too."

Enjolras wanted to say something, but he didn't have a chance to think of anything, because the door opened, and a horde of people came pouring in. They were loud and affectionate, and they looked suspiciously like his friends.

"And I just don't know where he could have gone," the one who looked like Courfeyrac was saying. "I tried to hold onto him, 'Ferre, I really did!"

Enjolras stood up. If these really were his friends, he had some apologies to make for disappearing as he had (though it hadn't been his fault). He pushed back his chair and started over.

He'd hardly taken three steps, when Combeferre came flying at him, almost knocking him over as he swept him into the biggest possible embrace.

"Enjolras! Thank goodness. I didn't know what had happened to you. I was so scared! Thank goodness you're safe, sweetheart. My god, I was almost out of my mind with worry!"

Enjolras clutched at him. He, too, was relieved. "I'm glad you're safe, too," he said.

"How did you get out?" interrupted Courfeyrac, as he pulled him away from Combeferre for his own hug. "We could barely manage it, and we were all together."

Enjolras pointed at Grantaire. "He saved me."

"It was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing! I would have been really badly hurt if it wasn't for you!" Enjolras turned to his friends. "He was amazing! He carried me out of there, just as easy as that!"

"Then we owe you our thanks." Combeferre went up to him, hand extended. "We can never repay you for what you've done, sir."

"Just seeing Enjolras safe is payment enough," said Grantaire smoothly, but his forehead was creased in concern, as if parts of his thoughts were elsewhere. Presently, he spoke again. "Forgive me for asking so bluntly, but are you Enjolras's husband?"

Combeferre grimaced. "No. If I were, it would be better for him, but we are just friends. My heart belongs to another."

"Ah." Grantaire's face cleared. "Then, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir."

"Call me Combeferre."

"Then, you must call me Grantaire."

The two men smiled at each other. Now that all their worries about Enjolras had been put aside, they had immediately become friends.

Seeing this happy result, Bahorel, Musichetta and Eponine stepped forward, smiling. They, too, wanted to join in the introductions. Enjolras was more than happy to oblige, as he now felt comfortable enough to do so, backed as he was by his friends. Musichetta seemed quite interested in Joly, and before long, the two of them were chatting with their heads close together. For her part, Eponine made a beeline for Cosette.

"I've seen you perform," she said. "You're amazing."

Cosette giggled, playing with a strand of hair. "Thank you so much, that means a lot."

"What are doing here at a political rally like this?" asked Eponine. She wasn't surprised, really; Cosette seemed to be the type of person who did whatever she wanted. But she _was_ interested, not the less because Cosette was one of the prettiest women she'd ever seen.

"I could ask the same," Cosette replied, smiling. "Shall we sit down and talk?"

This was exactly what Eponine had wanted. She pulled out a chair for Cosette, then sat down next to her, close enough for their knees to touch. Thus situated, they began to talk, and soon they were lost to the world.

Everyone was now chattering happily together. Enjolras stood between Combeferre and Grantaire talking to both of them, and admiring how easily they spoke to each other. Grantaire's hand was on his back, and Combeferre's was on his waist, and bracketed in this way, he felt completely safe. He was so happy, he thought. All the fear and pain he'd gone through that day had been worth it, just to be in this moment, safe and content and _living_.

He should have known that it wouldn't last.

Not long after everyone had reconvened into one happy group around the biggest table they could find, the door burst open, and Bossuet and Marius scrambled in, wild-eyed. They had been missing, but no one had worried, since Feuilly was with them, and nothing bad could happen on his watch, not even to this chronically unlucky pair. But now, here they were, with Feuilly nowhere in sight. Combeferre stood up.

"Where's Feuilly?"

For a second, neither Marius nor Bossuet could speak. Joly fetched a glass of water and handed it over, though, and finally, they caught their breath. Marius sank into a chair, and Bossuet leaned on Joly for support as he spoke.

"It's awful! It's just awful!"

"What's awful?"

"Feuilly." Bossuet looked around the room, finally fixing his gaze on Combeferre. "I'm so sorry. The police… They've taken him. He's in prison without bail."


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras hadn't seen his friends in months. In fact, he'd barely been outside. Felix had been furious about the rally, and had decreed that he was henceforth not allowed out of the house without a proper escort, not to go to church, not to visit the market, not even to seek solace in the garden.

Life was more miserable than it had ever been. Enjolras couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't read– in fact, he could do nothing but sit morosely in his chair by the window, stare out onto the tiny corner of the street that was visible from that part of the house, and wait in agony for whatever Felix would do to him next.

So cut off was he from the world, that he didn't hear about Combeferre's battle to free Feuilly until several months after it had already begun. He could only get his news from Marius anymore; Felix confiscated all the newspapers before he could get a chance to read them. And Marius wasn't always around, and when he was, he was as forgetful and dream-headed as always. So it was quite awhile before Enjolras could find out anything of importance. Once he did, though, he was furious.

It seemed that Combeferre had gone to the authorities to ask them to release Feuilly. No one had even deigned to meet with him at first, and he'd had to wait all day. Eventually, the station sent out a young, cocky officer named Montparnasse, who was, for all intents and purposes, the dirtiest cop in the city. He'd laughed in Combeferre's face when he'd heard about the situation, refused to do anything, and confiscated his car for good measure. Combeferre and his friends had taken this as proof that the system was corrupt, and had vowed to bring it down.

Now, together with Musichetta and her band of rebels, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and to some extent, the others, were wreaking havoc on the city, swearing revenge on those who had hurt them, and promising to help the downtrodden. Of course, Feuilly was the face of their movement, but he was only the beginning. Their goal was to bring an end to injustice everywhere.

Marius, for his part, had finally found a cause that he could believe in. He threw himself wholeheartedly into the fight, bringing both figurative and literal firepower, as he smuggled supplies out of the fireworks factory to blow up whatever was in the way. He told Enjolras excitedly about all his plans to set fire to the whole city (targeting the police station especially), with the aim of setting fear into the hearts of the public. It was only with great effort that the others were able to dissuade him from doing this.

Enjolras couldn't help but be envious. He, too, wanted to join in the fight to free Feuilly and end oppression. His inability to act was probably more painful to him than any punishment that Felix could dish out.

Accordingly, he began to plan. He had always been good at logic and strategy, and secretly, he had always aspired to lead a movement for change. So it wasn't hard for him to decide on several courses of action that would help his friends achieve their goals. The next time Marius went to meet with his friends, he brought with him a neatly-written battle plan for their next event.

The others were delighted. They'd missed Enjolras just as much as he missed them, and although this wasn't anything like having him with them, at least they had his ideas. And they were good ideas, much better than the ones they'd been able to come up with heretofore, so they continued to use them. It wasn't long before they started to think of him as their leader, in absentia.

Winter came and went, and spring faded into summer. Feuilly was still not free, and neither was Enjolras, though they were captives in quite a different way. It had now been eight months since either of them had seen their friends, or even been outside their respective prisons for any substantial amount of time. While no one really bothered about Feuilly, aside from his friends (who were working harder than ever to free him), people were beginning to talk about Enjolras.

He had never really had any friends in the community, since Felix kept him away from anyone who would be sympathetic to him, but eight months is a long time to be away from the public eye. Rumors began to fly, aided by Matelote and Gibelotte, who saw him every day and were able to tell everyone exactly how badly he was being treated. After awhile, even Felix's friends began to look at him cross-eyed when they passed him on the street.

Felix wanted to contest these rumors, but he couldn't bring Enjolras out in public to show him off, because he had been abused to such a degree that anyone would be able to tell that what the gossip said was true. And besides, Felix didn't want to let him out of the house. Who knew what he might do? So, he had to be content with loudly disputing anyone who accused him of cruel behavior, and taking out all his rage on Enjolras once he got home.

A little more than nine months after the rally, Marius invited himself to stay at the house for a few nights. When he had visited Enjolras last, he had noticed that he was now too weak to walk down the stairs without help. It wasn't just what Felix was doing to him; he was also pining and wasting away. Marius was intensely worried about his brother. Although they argued often, they were very close, and he knew he would never forgive himself if the unthinkable happened. So, he decided to come and stay for a bit, just so he could see what went on.

It was even worse than he had imagined. At first, Felix made an effort to be hospitable, but within a few hours, he was back to his normal self. Marius was frankly shocked at the horrible behavior that his brother-in-law displayed. He knew there wasn't much he could do to help, weak and cowardly as he was, but he also knew that he couldn't let this go on. And so, he did what any of their friends did when they had a crisis: he called on Combeferre.

Marius hadn't been very explicit when he told his friends what was going on with Enjolras. He had just explained that he was locked in the house and doing poorly, and left it at that. So when he finally told Combeferre about the situation, it was explosive.

Combeferre was furious– at Marius for not telling him sooner, at everyone in New Rochelle for not intervening, and most of all, at Felix for everything he'd done. He was so upset that his mind was in a muddle and he knew he couldn't do anything very helpful, so he called the rest of their friends for an emergency meeting.

The others were just as upset to hear the news as Combeferre had been. Grantaire wanted to go after Felix himself, and Cosette threatened to call the police and tell them everything. Courfeyrac and Bossuet had to be forcibly restrained from marching over to New Rochelle at that moment to set matters straight. Even Jehan, who was usually the gentlest of souls, declared that given a chance, he would like to stab Felix with a broadsword,

"Right in the stomach, so he'll bleed out slowly and die in pain."

"Where will you get a broadsword?" asked Musichetta, who looked as if she didn't at all disagree with the idea.

"From my house," said Jehan cheerfully. "I have several."

Combeferre couldn't even discuss the details of the problem. It was too much for him. So, he stepped outside while Marius told everyone exactly what was happening, and how Felix had been acting the past few days. Even so, he felt close to breaking down. Just the thought of his poor Enjolras facing so much pain by himself, that was practically unbearable.

After he'd gotten a handle on himself, he went back inside and helped the others plan. They didn't really know what to do, since they weren't sure if their plans would help, or just anger Felix and make everything worse in the end. So finally, they decided to keep things subtle and use the rumor mill to their advantage. After all, the more people knew, the better.

As soon as possible, therefore, Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Jehan began to call on all their friends in New Rochelle in order to feed the steadily-growing gossip about Enjolras and his situation. It was easy; people love scandal, and there is nothing more intriguing than someone else's pain. Slowly, Enjolras became the talk of the town.

The others couldn't do as much, but they offered support, and gave messages to Marius so that he could sneak them into the house. It was difficult for Marius to deliver very many, but what he did bring was enough to keep Enjolras afloat during the increasingly dark days of his confinement. He had to burn the messages as soon as he read them, and this seemed a tragedy to him. However, he had an exceptional memory, and not a single word was ever forgotten.

Finally, the group's efforts paid off. Felix began to get a lot of concerned visitors coming to his door inquiring about Enjolras, and asking if they could see him. Felix always sent them away, but this only fueled their curiosity, so they kept coming back, and bringing their friends, too. Soon, practically everyone in New Rochelle had been to the Tholomyes house at least once.

Aside from all these callers, though, Felix's social life was suffering. No one wanted to be associated with an abuser. After awhile, practically no one would speak to him in public, even if he nodded to them first (which he was not generally in the habit of doing, believing himself to be of a higher social caste than his peers).

This grated. Although it didn't seem like it sometimes, Felix cared deeply about public opinion. He didn't want to let something like this tarnish his reputation, or hurt his business. Finally, he decided to take Enjolras and Azelma and go on vacation. If he was away for awhile, gossip would die down, and he could go back to being a respected man-about-town.

Enjolras didn't particularly want to go on vacation. He had lost the will to do much, so leaving the house and setting up in a new place seemed like too much effort. Besides, what did it matter? A change of location wouldn't stop Felix from beating him senseless, or locking him in the bedroom to face whatever violence was set for that night. But Azelma wanted to go, and he couldn't deny her this bit of happiness, so he obediently packed his bags and followed his husband to Atlantic City.

The beach was probably nice (certainly, Azelma seemed to enjoy it), but Enjolras couldn't bring himself to care. He lived much as he had at home in New Rochelle, waiting for the day to be over, waiting for the night to end, waiting, _waiting_ for something to lift him from his misery. He helped Matelote and Gibelotte take care of Azelma, and Feuilly's baby, too (since he was still with them), taking great pains to see to their comfort, but he didn't expend the same effort on himself. For him, just surviving was hard enough.

He didn't have the strength to walk much, but Felix was adamant that they be seen in public together looking like a happy family, so he spent long hours on the beach sheltered under the shade of a canopy, watching while Azelma frolicked on the sand. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, because he had always loved the sun, and while he was in public, Felix couldn't lay a hand on him, but it was boring. He felt as if he was waiting for something, but he didn't know what it could be.

It was a particularly hot day, and Enjolras was sitting and watching the waves, half dozing, and half thinking about how nice it would be to throw himself into the depths of the ocean and never come up again. Felix had been particularly rough with him the night before, and he felt like he was dissolving. It was getting harder and harder to smile and greet the people who walked past.

Felix had gone to get a drink for himself, trusting that Enjolras was too weak and too injured to go very far. In this, he was correct; Enjolras didn't think he could get himself off the beach if his life depended on it. So, he was alone when a figure, tall and broad and backlit by the sun, came up to him and called out his name.

"Enjolras! Is that you?"

Enjolras did his best to sit up straight. He hadn't thought anyone knew him here, at least not enough to use his proper name, but apparently, he'd been wrong.

"Who is it?" he asked, probably rudely, but mincing his words seemed too difficult. "Do you mind coming out of the sun so I can see you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Immediately, the figure ducked down and came under the canopy. Enjolras stifled a gasp of surprise.

"Grantaire?"

His visitor grinned. "That's me!"

There were so many things that Enjolras wanted to say. _How did you find me_ , maybe, or _I've been thinking about you this whole time_. But these had to wait. He looked up, apologetic.

"I'm so sorry, I can't stand up to greet you. But please, sit down if you'd like."

Immediately, Grantaire sank down to kneel on the soft sand. He took one of Enjolras's hands in his own and raised it to his lips, not outside the realm of a normal greeting, but Enjolras felt his heart flip anyway.

"It's so good to see you," he said.

Grantaire didn't reply. He kept hold of his hand, turning it over, and looking at the bruises going up his arm.

"So it's true," he said.

Enjolras thought he knew, but he decided to ask anyway. "What's true?"

"What your husband has done to you."

Enjolras didn't argue. Anyone could see the evidence, written in blue and purple ink across his skin.

"It's true," he said.

Grantaire frowned. He had expected this, but some part of him had been hoping that it wasn't true, or at least wasn't as bad as Marius had reported. But now that he was here, he could see that it was possibly worse. Enjolras looked like he'd been broken too many times to stay together for much longer.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "If only I had known…"

Enjolras shushed him gently. "What good would that have done? Please don't worry, my dear. All that matters is that you're here now."

"Right!" Grantaire straightened up, grinning. "I'm here, don't doubt that. But so are the others! Marius told us all, and we came down here to be with you. What do you think of that?"

"You're all… you're here?" Enjolras could hardly believe it. It didn't seem possible that he could be delivered by his friends, the wonderful, beautiful lights of his life whom he hadn't seen in so long. Grantaire smiled at him.

"Yes! We're going to do our best to help you, so please don't worry. We'll try to make everything a little better for you, if we can."

"You already are." Enjolras closed his fingers over Grantaire's, squeezing ever so slightly. "If I know that you're here, I think I can bear a little more pain."

"Oh, Enjolras." Grantaire frowned again, heavy and sad. "You shouldn't have to. You deserve only happiness. My poor friend, what can I do to help you? Just tell me, and I'll do it."

An irrational part of Enjolras wanted to ask Grantaire to pick him up and carry him away, hold him tight, keep him safe. That Grantaire would do it, he had no doubt. Though they hadn't spoken in person for nine months, Enjolras knew, sure as sunshine, that Grantaire would do anything for the people he liked. If Enjolras just said the word, Grantaire would definitely rescue him.

But, this wasn't something that Enjolras could ask. He knew his place was here, and besides, he could never burden anyone with such a difficult task, especially someone he cared about so much (for he did care about Grantaire, despite their too-brief acquaintance). So he just squeezed his hand again.

"You're helping me already. Just knowing you're here is enough to get me through. And if I can see you sometimes, not for long, but whenever you have time, I would be more than happy."

"Of course we have time. We're here for _you_ , you know."

It took Enjolras a few seconds to realize that he was crying. This felt so different from his usual bursts of emotion (muffled, choked-off sobs during particularly bad nights and misty drizzles of tears in the middle of the morning when he thought he couldn't go on) that it didn't even register as crying until Grantaire was cupping his face and brushing away the tears, forehead twisted in concern.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, angel! Please don't cry. I didn't mean to upset you. What's the matter? What can I do?"

"It's not you," Enjolras managed. "I just don't know how to feel anymore."

"How to feel?"

"I stopped feeling much for awhile, you know, because it hurt too much, and besides, nothing seemed real anymore, so now I want to feel, but I don't know how. I'm sorry!"

"No no, don't apologize." Grantaire tipped Enjolras's chin up, ever so sweetly. "Hey, look at me. It's all right."

Used to avoiding eye contact as he was, Enjolras had a hard time raising his head. But when he did, Grantaire's eyes were warm and kind, filled with sympathy and emotion.

"It's all right," he said again. "I know it's hard to get used to feeling again. But we're here, and we'll help you through it."

Enjolras couldn't help but trust him. But still…

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm not the same person. I can barely walk, and I don't even look the same. I'll always be your friend, but I don't know if you'll still want to be mine."

"Of course we will." There was so much raw power in Grantaire's voice that Enjolras couldn't discount what he was saying, fearful though he was. "Maybe you're not the same, but you're still you, and that's what matters. Ask the others, and I'm sure they'll say the same. We couldn't expect you to come out of this unchanged."

"Really?"

"Really." Grantaire paused and for the first time, looked off to the side slightly. "And, I hope this isn't too forward to say, but you're as beautiful as you ever were. You're thinner and paler, and you need some ointment and bandages for sure, but you're still the loveliest vision in the world. And as for your infirmity, don't worry about that. I personally volunteer to carry you anywhere you wish."

Enjolras knew he was blushing. He'd been called beautiful by practically everyone he'd met– even Felix said it sometimes (though he always made it sound like a curse). But this was different. Grantaire spoke as if he was something to be treasured, precious and valuable and deserving of adoration. Enjolras could count on one hand the number of times he'd been made to feel this way.

"Grantaire…" he began.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say, only that he wanted to express his affection and gratitude somehow, and maybe, hopefully, Grantaire would understand. But he didn't get a chance to go on. Felix, who had a horror of leaving Enjolras alone for too long, came back, drink in hand. With a rustle of fabric and a strident interjection, he came under the canopy, glaring furiously at Enjolras and Grantaire both.

"What the hell is he doing here, Angelica? Is he talking to you?"

"Yes, he is. We're friends." Enjolras tried to clench his jaw. It hurt, but it was worth it to see the rage on Felix's face at this show of strength.

"What do you mean, friends? You're not allowed to have friends that I don't approve of. And you're definitely not allowed to talk to other men by yourself. I thought I'd broken you of this!"

"Broken–? Excuse me, sir." Grantaire rose up to his full, impressive height and stared at Felix threateningly. Felix looked daunted, but tried to stand his ground.

"What?"

"Who do you think you are? Don't talk to him like that."

"Grantaire, please don't," interrupted Enjolras, though his voice was dishearteningly weak. "Please don't fight on my account. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."

At this, Grantaire paused, one word from Enjolras being enough to stop him in his tracks, but Felix rounded on Enjolras, eyes burning.

"What's that, Angelica? You care about him?"

"I do."

"Then I'll have to break you of that as well."

Without another word, he seized Enjolras by the shoulders and pulled him out of his chair. Grantaire started forward to stop him, but Enjolras gave him a pleading look, sweet and appealing and terribly sad.

"Please don't."

Grantaire subsided. He didn't want to make things worse for Enjolras if he could help it. Later, he would definitely find a way to get him away from all this, but for the moment, the best he could do was follow Enjolras's wishes, simple though they were.

"Be brave," he said.

Felix snorted. "Shut up. And you, come with me."

He half-dragged, half-carried Enjolras off the beach, for the first time not even caring how brutal he looked while doing so. People stared, but he just glared at them, as if daring them to interfere. No one did, but the spectacle provided gossip for quite a few tables that evening.

Enjolras passed the rest of the day barely conscious. Felix hadn't spared any punishment, and he was left practically inert, not even sure where he was anymore. All he knew was that sooner or later, he had to get back to the beach somehow. His friends were waiting.

It was two days before Enjolras could go outside. In the meantime, his friends had been talking amongst themselves, shaken to the core by Grantaire's firsthand account.

"I can't stand not to do anything," groaned Courfeyrac. "We're right here, and yet we haven't even seen him yet!"

"I'm not sure if you _want_ to see him right now," pointed out Marius. "He looks awful. You wouldn't like it at all."

"I don't care! I just don't want him to be alone!"

Cosette nudged Grantaire. "Thank goodness you found him the other day. At least now he knows we're here for him."

Grantaire downed yet another glass of gin. He'd been drinking heavily ever since he'd met Enjolras, and barely talking at all. When he did speak now, his voice was scratchy and hoarse.

"He said that if he knows we're here, he can bear a little more pain. But that shouldn't be it. He shouldn't have to be in pain at all."

"I know, I know." Cosette slid the bottle of gin away from Grantaire, patting him again when he made a disapproving sound. "We can't give in to despair, though. We have to do our best for Enjolras."

"What's our best? I just want to take him away."

"If I'm being honest, I do, too. If I could, I'd put him in my pocket and leave and never look back."

"Can we?" asked Jehan. "Surely, he wouldn't object. And if we were all with him, no further harm could come to him."

Everyone was silent for a minute, thinking about this beautiful idea. All of them, together in a welcoming house to share, mingling together their dreams and hopes, joys and small sorrows, and in the midst of them, Enjolras, safe and protected at last. It was a lovely picture. Finally, though, practical Eponine broke the illusion.

"So, that's nice. But what are we _really_ going to do?"

In the end, it was decided that everyone should spend as much time as possible on the beach, in hopes that Enjolras would show up, and he could be asked what he wanted. Much as everyone wanted to bundle him up and make off with him, they knew this wasn't practical, or maybe even something that he wished for. So talking to him and finding out as much information as possible– that was the first step.

Accordingly, the group began to take shifts in watching the beach. Grantaire had met him in the afternoon, but no one knew if this was a prime time or not. Maybe, he preferred the mornings, and it was just a fluke that had left him there so late. Or, more likely, for Enjolras hated to get up early, he liked the evenings better, and had been staking out his spot that afternoon. No one knew, so they decided to keep watch round-the-clock to wait for him to come.

For awhile, he didn't show up, and the others were beginning to worry. Had Felix been so angry that he'd dragged him back to New Rochelle? Were they all here for nothing?

Fortunately, these worries, though valid, were unfounded. Three days after Grantaire had met Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Cosette finally found him on the boardwalk, struggling to stay upright while he waited for Felix. He looked even worse than he had before, still beautiful, of course, but sick and exhausted. It seemed as if he was barely present, too caught up in pain to see the world around him. Courfeyrac was too shocked and horrified to do anything, so Cosette went up to him and offered her arm.

"May I help?"

Enjolras turned, astonishment on every feature. "Cosette?"

"The one and the same!"

Enjolras looked like he was about to fall, so Cosette put an arm around his waist to keep him upright. She was deceptively strong thanks to her training as a showgirl, but even if she hadn't been, she would barely have needed any strength to support him. He was as insubstantial as a feather in the wind.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I am."

His voice was terribly strained. Cosette thought it might have something to do with the angry bruises around his throat, just the size of Felix's hand. She wanted to say something, tell him not to talk if it hurt, maybe, but he went on.

"I'm so glad to see you. I admit, I wasn't feeling well this morning, but now I'm glad I came down."

This morning, nothing. Clearly, he wasn't feeling well _now_. Cosette reached out her other hand to hold his shoulder.

"Would you like to sit? Forgive me for saying so, but you look a bit peaked."

"I would, but Felix told me to stand here and wait for him. If I leave, he'll certainly be angry." Enjolras winced, realizing how he sounded. "I'm sorry, Cosette. I'm not as brave as you thought I was. My husband controls every part of my life now."

"No, please don't apologize, my dear. No one could blame you for this, not in the least."

Cosette remembered what Grantaire had told them, how Enjolras felt guilty for not being the same person they'd met a year ago, and how worried he was that everyone would abandon him after seeing the changes that these months of torture and confinement had wrought. She knew he would need much reassurance and love in the coming days, and long after, too. Fears like his were not easily overcome.

"It's all right," she said. "We know you've had an awful time, so we don't expect you to be the same as you were before. Just to have _you_ , that's as much as anyone could ask. You're wonderful, Enjolras. You're wonderful, and we love you."

"It's true," said Courfeyrac, who had found the courage to come closer. Enjolras reached out a wobbling hand to him.

"Courfeyrac! You're here too?"

Courfeyrac clasped his hand. He didn't kiss it (though he wanted to), but he did bring it to his chest and hold it against his heart.

"I'm here."

Cosette thought this was very sweet. She knew Courfeyrac loved Enjolras dearly, and had missed him more than anything. And then, too, Enjolras had obviously missed him right back. It was lovely to see them reunited like this.

But, this reunion would have to be postponed for another time. Felix was coming up the boardwalk behind them. He hadn't seen them yet, but soon he would.

"Courfeyrac, step away," Cosette said, urgency sharpening her tone. "Felix is coming. We need to leave."

Courfeyrac blurted out something not quite polite, and moved away to a respectable distance.

"I'm sorry, Enjolras. It seems that I've found you only to leave again."

"It's all right. Now I have hope. Before I knew you were here, I had none."

This little statement, said so simply, was more poignant than half a dozen books of verse. Both Courfeyrac and Cosette felt themselves near tears. But they couldn't do anything, not right now.

"We've been busy," said Cosette quickly. "Soon, you might find yourself with an invitation to dinner, and Felix will have no way to refuse."

Enjolras didn't see how this could be, but he merely smiled gratefully at his friends. They'd made his whole day by showing up here.

"Thank you so much for finding me," he said. "I'll be thinking of you until we meet again."

"We as well."

Cosette darted forward and pressed a kiss to Enjolras's cheek before backing away. She took Courfeyrac's arm, and led him off down the boardwalk, just as Felix came into view of Enjolras.

"Were you here the whole time?" he asked suspiciously.

"I was," Enjolras assured him. "I don't have the strength to move very far, you see."

Felix glowered at that, taking it as a comment on his own abusive behaviors (which, of course, it was), but he was in public. So he just lowered his voice and spoke directly into Enjolras's ear.

"Watch yourself, you whore. Just look pretty and do what I tell you. That's all you're good for."

It wasn't anything worse than the things that Felix usually said, but Enjolras felt his brief happiness wither up and die. Even if he didn't necessarily believe the awful things he was told, it still hurt to hear them.

"What do you want to tell me, then?" he asked. "Are we going down to the beach now?"

Felix peered at him from under his eyebrows. "Do you want to?"

"Not really."

"Then, yes. Let's go."

Enjolras hadn't really expected any other result. He meekly followed Felix down to the beach, leaning heavily on his arm just to stay upright. Felix nodded at all the people he met, smiling possessively. He always liked it when Enjolras was dependent on him. It was truly disgusting. If Enjolras had been feeling better, he knew he would have had quite a few things to say about it, though as it was, he was too weak to formulate many coherent thoughts.

They passed the day in a blur. Enjolras wasn't even sure when they left the beach to go back to their rented house. But when he finally managed to sleep that night, he saw the faces of his friends.

Cosette hadn't lied. She and the others really had been busy. They quickly became friends with everyone at the beach, making nice, and establishing themselves as eminently respectable people. Soon, they were busy every day, tending to the invitations of their new, rather pleasant friends. This was fortunate for everyone concerned, because many of the people at the beach that summer were famous and important ones, known throughout the country and celebrated in New Rochelle. In fact, these were the people with whom Felix had been trying to get in good for years.

It is easy to form friendships on a summer beach. The atmosphere is so much looser and more relaxed that people are willing to let their guards drop and accept others into their hearts much more easily than they normally would. Accordingly, after a few days, Cosette and her friends quickly became closer with the people on the beach than Felix had in years of effort. Of course, it helped that Cosette and her friends were likable, and Felix was not. Still, it was remarkable.

Felix noticed this, and was annoyed. By this time, he had become familiar with some of Marius's new friends, so he could recognize them when he saw them chatting up the creme-de-la-creme of New Rochelle all across the boardwalk. It was insufferable. These audacious young upstarts had come along and sailed into friendships with the people whom he'd been trying to cultivate for years. To make matters worse, whenever any of them saw him now, they would merely ask him about Enjolras, as if that was all that mattered to them.

Felix was furious. He wasn't a stupid man by any means, and he knew that sooner or later, someone would see Enjolras and put the pieces together. Then, he would never escape his reputation as an abuser. Accordingly, he did his best to act loving towards Enjolras in public, so that people could see what a good husband he was and ignore the rumors.

Of course, this was all a show. As soon as he got back home, he became himself once more. If anything, in fact, it was more unbearable than before. Enjolras hated having to act like a proper spouse, and he hated Felix's slimy attempts to impress the people around them. He had to put up with it, though, because if he didn't, Felix would punish him harshly later.

It wasn't long before Cosette sent the promised invitation to dinner. Enjolras was aware of the machinations that had been happening behind the scenes, but he was still pleasantly surprised when Felix grumbled and growled and finally assented to go. Of course, Felix didn't trust him to go by himself, but that was all right. Enjolras was just happy to see his friends at all.

That night, Enjolras put on his prettiest summer evening dress, and did his hair with extra care. He still hated how he looked, bruised and battered as he was, with dark circles under his eyes, and a face so thin and pale that his mouth stood out like a scar. But even if he wasn't as beautiful as he wanted to be, at least he could dress nicely. Maybe his friends wouldn't be as ashamed of him this way.

He was just clasping a string of pearls around his neck and wondering whether or not to put another in his hair, when Felix came in, holding a gingham bundle.

"I see you dressed already," he said. "That's so much the worse. Take off everything you have on. I have something else I want you to wear."

He shook out the bundle, and Enjolras could see that it was a long-sleeved dress, long and lumpy, and several seasons out of fashion (if it had ever been in fashion at all). It looked like it had been made by someone who had a vague idea of what dresses should look like, but had never worn one, or seen one in real life. What's more, it was covered all over with an atrocious brown-and-white pattern that was certain to be unflattering. Enjolras was horrified.

"What is this?"

"Your dinner outfit." Felix smiled a bare-toothed predatory smile. "I had it made just for you. Aren't you grateful?"

"I'm really not. Felix, this is hideous. Why would you order this?"

Felix came over to the boudoir table where Enjolras was sitting and hovered over him, still smiling in that awful, wolfish way.

"You see, Angelica," he said. "You're quite a pretty woman. That would be bad enough, but you're a whore as well. No, don't try to deny it, I know your little tricks. So I can't have you going out looking like that, now can I? Who knows what you would do?"

Enjolras was speechless. This was a new low. Heretofore, Felix had never interfered with his wardrobe, whether because it was socially advantageous to have a pretty and well-dressed spouse, or because his controlling nature hadn't yet stretched that far. Enjolras knew that probably should have seen it coming, since Felix hand-selected all of Azelma's clothes, but he had never thought that things would get bad enough that he should be treated like a child.

This wasn't all, though. Enjolras, though not prideful, was well aware of his appearance, and found an innocent pleasure in accentuating his beauty. When he looked nice, he found it easier to meet the challenges of the day, and it gave him some hope to accouter himself in the latest and most flattering fashions. Sometimes, this bit of joy was all he could hold to. Felix didn't completely understand, and just thought Enjolras was vain and self-absorbed. But he did know that his looks were important to him, so clearly, this was just another way of hurting him.

It was cruel. All he had was his beauty, and now Felix wanted to take it away.

"I won't wear this," he said.

"You will." Felix held up the dress, pausing for emphasis. "You will wear this, or I will lock you in the bedroom, and not let you out until tomorrow. And I will tell your friends that you didn't feel like seeing them, so you stayed home despite all my injunctions."

There was a part of Enjolras that wanted to tell him to go ahead and lock him up. But he knew this would be childish, and probably what Felix wanted. So he stood up, spine as straight as iron, and took the dress from Felix's waiting hand.

"Leave me," he said.

Felix smirked at him. "I don't think so. I'm going to stay right here and make sure you obey my orders."

This was typical. Felix liked to deprive Enjolras of any and all dignity that he could. Enjolras hadn't expected any different, but he was still disheartened. Trust Felix to make the whole experience as humiliating for him as possible.

He dressed quickly, trying not to pay any attention to the way Felix leered at him. Really, he felt almost as violated as he did when Felix ripped his clothes off of him at night. Now, not even his dressing was his own.

Felix made him brush out his hair and put it into a tight braid that hid the exquisite delicacy of his curls. Then, he made him take off his jewelry, lipstick, and corsage, and change into sensible, ugly shoes that he had procured from somewhere. They were too big, and dreadfully uncomfortable to boot, but he knew better than to complain. Knowing Felix, he would probably manage to find an even worse pair somehow.

Enjolras almost didn't want to leave the house looking as he did (he'd refused to look in the mirror, but he was sure it was awful), but eventually, his longing for his friends trumped his pride. He followed Felix down to the car to drive over to the house where Cosette was staying. Felix had wanted to walk, probably to ensure that everyone would see Enjolras in his ugly clothes, but Enjolras hadn't even made it twenty feet before stumbling, so out of necessity, they had elected to drive.

As soon as they pulled up to the house, Cosette was running up to greet them. Apparently, she had been waiting at the door to watch for them to drive up. She flung open Enjolras's door and helped him out of the car.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said brightly. "I was so afraid you wouldn't make it!"

Felix got out of the car on the other side, and came over, glaring. "Why wouldn't we have made it?"

"Oh." Cosette turned to look at him, eyes wide. She hadn't thought this was a very problematic thing to say. "I meant no offense, Mr. Tholomyes. I just meant that I'm happy to see you."

Enjolras watched this scene play out in dismay. Despite Cosette's comforting arm around his waist, he felt miserable and itchy, like he was about to fly apart any minute. He knew he looked terrible, so that was a count against him already. And then, with Felix's rude behavior, there was very little question that his friends would turn against him by the end of the night. So lost was he in his distress that he barely registered Cosette leading him into the house.

He noticed when he got inside, though. Before he could even take his jacket off, his friends had descended on him.

"Enjolras!"

"I'm so glad you made it!"

"How are you, my love?"

"What are you _wearing_?"

This last question was from Jehan, who really had no cause to talk, clad as he was in a shocking pink silk suit and green striped cravat. No doubt, the question was meant innocently, but it was the breaking point for Enjolras. Unable to stop himself, he burst into tears.

Felix looked torn between annoyance and satisfaction, but everyone else circled around him in acute concern. Jehan fluttered at him nervously, hands twisting with worry.

"I'm so sorry, Enjolras! What did I say? Please, don't be upset!"

Enjolras wanted to reassure him, but he couldn't find the words. He just stood limply and pathetically, crying as if his heart would break. His friends dithered around him, not knowing what to do, until finally, Combeferre took charge and led him off to the bathroom to clean him up. Felix attempted to follow, but Bahorel and Grantaire got in his way, casually flexing, and he subsided.

While Enjolras was gone, the others sat Felix down and made polite conversation with him. It was difficult, because he seemed intent on answering everyone as rudely as possible, but they were nothing if not persistent. Truth to be told, they also found it rather amusing to bait him. Kindhearted souls that they were, they would never have acted thusly to anyone else, but they all hated Felix from the bottom of their hearts. Anyone who treated Enjolras so badly was no friend of theirs.

After awhile, Combeferre and Enjolras came back out into the main room. Enjolras had mostly stopped crying, but now it seemed like Combeferre was about to start. Certainly, he looked terribly upset as he ushered Enjolras over to the others and helped him into a seat.

"It's all right, don't worry," he kept saying, though whether he was talking to Enjolras or to himself was anyone's guess.

The poor man, Cosette reflected. He had lost his lover to the injustices of society, and now he had to watch his best friend dying at the hands of his own husband. It was so much to bear. No wonder he was always so tense. She made up her mind to do all she could to help lighten the load on his shoulders.

Dinner was an awkward affair, full of meaningful glances and unsaid words. Conversation was stilted and abrupt, and there was a tension in the air that was obvious to everyone. Poor Enjolras was too nervous to eat anything; he just cowered in his chair across from Felix, making himself small, lest he present himself as too great of a target. In theory, he knew that his friends were happy to have him, but he hadn't seen most of them for nine months. Did they still like him? And even if they did, could they accept the changes that had taken place in him?

Felix noticed this, and capitalized on it. Here was his chance to turn Enjolras's apparent admirers against him and keep him good and isolated. He had realized by now that it was important for him to get into these people's good graces, since they were close with the high-and-mighty of New Rochelle, so he had stopped being rude, and become fatuous instead. But even so, he managed to insult Enjolras at every turn, doing everything he could to make him look bad.

"I just don't know what to do," he said, shaking his head in a mimicry of fond exasperation. "I try to do my best for her, but she makes things so difficult. Women are such stupid creatures– present company excluded, of course," he added with a sly wink in Cosette's direction.

The others looked at each other. If Enjolras wasn't correcting his husband, it wasn't their place to do so. But it still rankled to hear him referred to that way.

"I think you're being a little harsh," ventured Jehan. Felix brayed out an ugly laugh.

"Harsh? I don't think so. If anything, I'm too lenient on her. You know, she really believes that she's dying?"

"Oh?"

"It's true. That's why she stays inside so much. It was all I could to persuade her to meet you all tonight."

"I thought you wanted to see us," said Marius, hurt. "Is that not true?"

Enjolras stared at him in panic. If even his own brother believed Felix over him, what chance did he have with the others?

Felix saw his chance, and ran with it. "Oh, don't be offended," he said. "Angelica has just got it into her head that it's in mode to be a misanthrope. She tries her best to stay aloof and not form attachments. Don't worry, she may come to her senses eventually."

"What?" Now Marius was concerned. "What have you been reading, Enj? Where did you get these ideas?"

"I, I don't…"

"It'll be all right," swept on Felix loudly. "It's my duty as a husband to discipline and instruct her in the right ways. Mark my words, she'll be straightened out by the end of the summer. Maybe she can join us again then."

Enjolras couldn't stay and hear what his friends would say to this. He pushed back his chair in an unsteady motion and got to his feet.

"Excuse me," he whispered, and fled from the room.

Immediately, Cosette stood up, too. "I'll be back."

She left, right on Enjolras's heels. Grantaire followed close behind her. The others wanted to follow, but they knew they would be most useful here, keeping Felix busy. They were finding him increasingly vile with each moment that passed. No doubt about it, they had to keep him away from Enjolras for as long as they could.

Outside, Cosette and Grantaire had quickly caught up with Enjolras. He couldn't go far, weak as he was, so he'd stopped on the beach in front of the house, and was resting on the sand. Even from where they were, Cosette and Grantaire could tell that he was crying. They went up to him and sat down on either side, but he didn't look up.

"Why are you here?"

"We wanted to see if you were all right." Cosette put a gentle arm around his shoulders. Grantaire wanted to as well, but he didn't know if that was something he could do, so he just nudged him instead.

" _Are_ you all right?"

"I am. You should go back in."

"Do you want to go back in?"

"No."

"Then, we don't either. We'll stay out here with you."

Now Enjolras did look up, teary-eyed, but with a hopefulness that he couldn't hide. "But is that all right?"

"Yes. I want to be wherever you are."

Enjolras's bottom lip trembled. He was so overwhelmed with emotion that he didn't even know what he was feeling, only that it was too much to bear. Unable to look his friends in the eye, he drew into himself, a shivering little ball with a heart scraped too raw to touch.

Grantaire and Cosette put their arms around him and scooted closer to keep him safe and supported while he tried to get a hold of himself. They didn't talk much, just stayed close, warm, and protective. None of them knew how long they were there, but they weren't in any hurry– this was exactly where they needed to be, cuddling like kittens and letting their souls touch under the stars.


	8. Chapter 8

Combeferre didn't want to leave Enjolras, especially now that he'd seen what was going on firsthand, but he knew he had to get back to New York. No one else would save Feuilly, and the longer he was gone, the more ground would be lost. Then, too, there was an entire cause to advance. He couldn't put justice on hold for the sake of one man.

Still, though, it was hard. Enjolras was so _fragile_. After the dinner party, they hadn't seen each other for a couple days, and when they finally did, Enjolras had spent half the time apologizing. He was so wounded, so alone, so trapped and scared and in need of support from the people who cared about him. Combeferre loved Feuilly, but he loved Enjolras, too. He'd never had a better friend, nor one so precious. Indisputably, he couldn't justify leaving like this.

Fortunately, his friends came up with an answer. If he went back to New York, someone else would stay and make sure everything was all right. Grantaire, who loved Enjolras as much as Combeferre did himself, offered to remain on the beach and keep an eye out.

"Gavroche would like it," he said, somewhat awkwardly. "And I might get some good inspiration for my movies."

Rich as he was now, awash in fame and wealth from his movie company, Photoplay Inc., he could afford to take the summer off and stay at the beach. And as his business manager, Eponine could obviously stay as well. But the others, less lucky in their employment, had to return to work. Bahorel needed to get back to the office (where he now worked as a legal aid), Cosette and Courfeyrac had audiences waiting for them, and Jehan's publishers were already hounding him to come back.

So, they all did the best they could to install Enjolras in the social life of the beach so it would be noticed if Felix ever decided to lock him away again (unlikely) or beat him too severely (much more plausible), and introduced Gavroche and Azelma so that Grantaire and Eponine would have an excuse to visit. The children took to each other immediately, and were soon just like brother and sister. It was a joy to see them playing together on the beach, so happy and lighthearted. Even Enjolras felt his spirits lift, watching them.

Finally, though, it was impossible to delay any longer. Combeferre and the others packed their bags and headed off for the train station, heavy-hearted. Enjolras had come with them to see them off, and though Felix was of course also there, glaring in the background and criticizing everything he did, it was still nice.

Combeferre embraced his little friend, holding him crushingly tight as if he could melt some love into him this way. "Be brave," he said.

"You too." Enjolras sniffled, wrinkling up Combeferre's shirt in his small fists. "I wish I could help you. But I know you don't really need me. Feuilly could be in no better hands than yours."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm right." Enjolras stepped back and looked at Combeferre in the eyes, serious and certain. "I know it will turn out for the best. I believe in you."

"Do you, then? Well. In that case, I suppose I can do nothing but succeed." Combeferre laid a gentle kiss on Enjolras's forehead, smiling when his eyes fell shut. "Stay strong, my friend. We'll be reunited soon."

"I'll be waiting. All the luck in the world to you, 'Ferre. I love you!"

Enjolras moved away, knowing that Felix would be angry if he spent too much time talking to any one person. Accordingly, he said goodbye to Courfeyrac next, clinging onto him, and trying to encourage him as best he could. It was hard, since he himself felt the opposite of cheerful, but he did his best.

Combeferre got into the train, sick at heart. He hated to leave Enjolras, even in Grantaire's care as he was. He knew with all his mind that he wouldn't be able to do much here, and would be much more useful in New York. But, with all his heart, he wanted to stay.

Too quickly, the train puffed and whistled and headed out of the station, bringing the revolution to New York. Left on the platform behind, a small blond figure stood alone, waving desperately after it, and hoping that at some point, he could stop crying. This parting had been almost impossible for all involved.

Not much had changed in New York while Combeferre had been away. This was fortunate, in that the situation hadn't gotten worse, but it also meant that things hadn't improved, either. Combeferre installed himself as quickly as he could, and the very next day, resumed his fight as if he'd never been away. He couldn't lose any time now.

He was happy that his baby was still in Atlantic City with Enjolras (or rather, with Grantaire and Eponine, since for safety's sake, all the children were staying with them now). He would be safe and cared for there, and wouldn't be in any danger.

It was painful, though. Combeferre wanted to be with his child and care for him himself. He knew the others would do a better job, because this way, the poor child wouldn't have to be dragged into the revolution before he could talk. When Combeferre had secured freedom for Feuilly, and his child was a bit older and less dependent on constant care, then maybe he could think about building a family. But for now, he had to be content with reports from the beach.

Unfortunately, his cause didn't seem to be progressing at all. It was still nearly impossible to make any headway, because the city was steadfastly blocking everything he did. He couldn't even get in to visit Feuilly, and had to be content with sending frequent letters, though of course this wasn't enough at all, and only served to fuel his impatience.

It helped to have white friends on his side. Courfeyrac and Jehan were treated better by the racist city officials, and so was Cosette to some extent, though she was a woman, and so was excluded from much of the important action. They worked in the heart of the city, going places where Combeferre couldn't, extending their reach beyond the too-narrow sphere that he'd been allotted by society. They were helpful, and of course he appreciated their efforts, but it rankled, too, knowing that his fight was limited in such a way.

In fact, it was incredibly tiresome. Courfeyrac, who hadn't even known Feuilly that long, could talk his way into the prison any day he wished, but Combeferre, who had known and loved him for years, was forever barred from visiting. He wasn't jealous– jealousy wasn't an emotion that he often experienced– but he was upset. This system had to change, and the sooner the better.

At this time, Musichetta was really invaluable. She led frequent rallies, crying for justice and damning everyone who stood in the way. With her passion and fire, Combeferre's cause soon spread through the city. People he'd never met would stop him on the street to ask how they could help, or to give him a few words of encouragement. Sometimes, they even gave him money, which he wanted to refuse, but Musichetta told him to keep it. Running a campaign like this wasn't cheap, so they could use all the help they could get.

Everyone, in fact, used their own particular talents to further the cause. Cosette and Courfeyrac used their public influence to draw attention to the injustices of the city, drumming up support from even the most bourgeoisie of rich-city denizens by packaging social justice into bite-sized pieces that their audiences could swallow. One night, Cosette dedicated an entire program to Feuilly. It was absolutely beautiful; there wasn't a dry eye in the house by the last curtain call. After that, Combeferre received twice as many donations as he ever had before.

Bahorel got his legal office on their side. Combeferre wasn't exactly sure how he'd done this, since many of the people who worked there were rich and white, but somehow, they seemed to be devoted to the cause now, and since he saw no reason to be suspicious, he accepted their help. None of them wanted to be openly involved. It was risky for them to help at all, especially since some of them were from marginalized backgrounds themselves, and to go against the grain was to lose their very livelihood. But they worked hard behind the scenes, and Combeferre didn't respect them any less for that.

Jehan began to publish independently, writing movingly about the injustices in the world. He wasn't the most famous writer in the popular literary circuit, but that made his writing even better, since he didn't have to worry about public opinion. Combeferre thought it was wonderful that they had a writer of his caliber to help them. Because his writing was popular among the intellectual elite of the city (and indeed, of the country, since he wrote for several national magazines), he drew a very specific set of people to the cause that the others might not necessarily reach. This was useful, and gave them all a sort of respectability, especially among the high-thinking crowd.

Joly and Bossuet never left Combeferre's side. They were, of course, living with him, giving them all an extra measure of closeness, but even when they all went out to till the fields of revolution, the three of them stuck close. They were often the only reason that Combeferre didn't collapse in despair at night, unfailingly loyal and encouraging as they were. Although Bossuet had never finished law school thanks to racial tensions and discrimination, he was a brilliant, legal-minded man, and he was better than most at dealing with the bureaucratic struggles that they all faced. Joly, as a practicing doctor, was kept on standby at every public event to treat those who were inevitably wounded. And of course, being Combeferre's right-hand men, they often were called upon to do whatever was needed. Competent and ready for work as they were, they always did it well.

Finally, there was one more member of their team, just as valuable and important as all the rest. Marius acted as their go-between, traveling back and forth from New Rochelle to Harlem to Atlantic City to anywhere else he was needed, reaching everyone with his earnest, straightforward manner, and genuine belief in change. As a privileged white man, he could go places that the others couldn't, and had more influence than he had ever known was possible. It was good that he was a humble soul, or the power might have gone to his head. He spent most of his time in Atlantic City, though, fearing for Enjolras's health and safety. All of the others used him to pass messages, and he was more than happy to do this, seeing that it gave everyone a measure of hope.

This hope was something that they desperately needed. Every day seemed darker than the last. Montparnasse and his gang of corrupt officials terrorized Combeferre and his friends, doing their best to block progress at every turn. Because they had the law behind them, they could get away with much more than the average person could, and they took full advantage of this privilege to create as many impediments as possible.

They also attempted to get the people on their side. New York being what it was, this was fairly easy. All they had to do was buy off the newspapers, which they could do easily enough, having the entire city treasury at their disposal. Then, with the press in their pockets, nothing could stop them from winning back the hearts of the common man. Even Combeferre's alliance with Courfeyrac, Cosette, and Marius did nothing; though they themselves were spared from much of the public vitriol, their privilege was not enough to save the others. Soon, most people dismissed their entire crusade as the ravings of an angry outcast.

Combeferre was despondent. How was he supposed to fight for justice if no one took him seriously? He was a rational man, logical, clear-minded, and eminently calm and collected. And, he had a kind and gentle heart. He was possibly the furthest thing from the creation that the press had made of him. Though he was not one to back down easily, he felt dreadfully discouraged. It was hard to see himself so demonized when all he wanted was to do right.

Finally, though, he laid this aside. So the people thought he was radical to the point of violence? Very well. He would try that route. Maybe they would listen then. He gathered his friends and told them his plans, sending Marius to Atlantic City to inform Enjolras of what was going on. Although he was sure of himself now, he wanted to make sure that his dearest friend was on board. If not, it might be a problem.

Fortunately, he was. Enjolras sent back an enthusiastic message, detailing his thoughts on the matter, which were numerous, and beautifully elucidated. He'd taken up four whole sheets of paper talking on the subject. The others were pleased. They'd all accepted Combeferre's decision, and now that they saw that Enjolras had as well, they were ready to move forward.

Accordingly, they began to plan. Pleas, petitions, and peaceful protests were getting them nowhere; it was time to use force. Combeferre told them that he wouldn't use real violence except as a last resort, because threats often worked just as well, and though the others grumbled about this, they eventually accepted it.

Combeferre decided to hold City Hall hostage. This would get people's attention, and if his endeavor failed, at least he could have the satisfaction of making a statement. He didn't want to hurt anyone if he didn't have to, but he wanted to be prepared for anything, so he asked Marius for help in putting together some explosives.

Marius was ecstatic. Finally, here was his chance to contribute to the movement in a tangible way! With Felix gone, he had free run of the factory, so he gathered as many supplies as he could, and brought them to Combeferre's little place in Harlem, which had become their group's meeting place. He tried to teach the others how to use them, although, only Combeferre and Musichetta were brave enough to try. Combeferre was fascinated by the science behind them, while Musichetta admired their destructive capability, and soon, both of them were ready to blow up anything and everything in their path.

Musichetta had been delighted about this new possibility for change for as long as their movement had been going, but these explosives were the final point. Now, she was overjoyed. Radical and anarchic as she was, she was convinced that nothing would save their cause but violence, or at the very least, outright rebellion. Threats, she thought, wouldn't be enough. If their group caused palpable damage in the city, she said, their cause would be more believable, and their eventual standoff at City Hall would be that much more effective.

Some of the others were convinced, but Combeferre remained deeply unhappy about it. He didn't approve of destruction. The good, he said, must be innocent, and a cause that was furthered by bloodshed was definitely not that.

But, he was in the minority with this opinion. Marius was ready to blow up half the city, and Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac were putting together large stores of weaponry, believing that Combeferre would back down soon, and they would be free to attack. Cosette and Joly were softer in their approach, but even they were furious, and rapidly losing patience. Soon, Combeferre was the only one advocating for pure non-violence.

He couldn't even get in touch with Enjolras to ask his opinion. Communication lines were down between New York and Atlantic City, whether by Felix's design or otherwise, and not even Marius could get through. Unfortunately, it seemed that Enjolras, Grantaire, and Eponine would have to sit this fight out.

Despite Combeferre's constant attempts to change their minds, eventually his friends won out. They went forth into the city, now acting with true intention in their crusade to stir the blood of the people. Cosette and Courfeyrac couldn't do as much, being so in the public eye, but the others, under the cover of anonymity, went out to wreak havoc with all the reckless abandon they could muster. Bahorel smashed things; Jehan painted signs; Musichetta stirred up riots. Even sweet little Joly joined forces with Bossuet to break and enter, set fires, and destroy. And Marius? Marius was the most terrifying of all. Now, his similarity to his brother was clear. He charged forth, fiery, passionate, and powerful, guns blazing and dynamite set. No one could stand in his way. Combeferre was glad that they were on the same side, because it was clear that Marius's enemies had ample cause to worry.

He didn't want to join in with his friends' efforts. It was bad enough that they were doing it; he didn't want to take part as well. Besides, shouldn't someone be around to look out for them, in case they got themselves injured or arrested?

This lasted only so long, though. Eventually, he couldn't sit on the sidelines anymore while his friends endangered themselves for the cause. Reluctantly, hating himself for it, and yet spurred on by the thought that it was necessary, he joined in the fight.

This was what the movement had been waiting for. Combeferre tended to succeed at everything he did, and this was no exception. With all his usual foresight and intelligence, he engineered plans to disrupt the inner workings of the city, without harming the common people for whom they were fighting. He missed Enjolras, who was indisputably the best at planning and leading, but he knew that he didn't really need him. His best was more than good enough. Soon, everyone in the city was quaking in fear of the threat posed by Combeferre and his rebels.

Back in Atlantic City, Enjolras, Grantaire, and Eponine knew little of the valiant struggles of their friends. They found out as much information as they could, but this was not enough. So, they were astounded to hear that Felix had been asked to go back to New York and help mediate in the fight against Combeferre and the others.

It made sense from an outsider's point of view. Felix was well-respected, an important figure in the community. And it was known that Enjolras was caring for Combeferre's baby (though Felix had taken great pains to suppress any reports of their friendship outside of that). So those in power had asked him to come and help lend a hand in the fight, hoping that he could do what they could not, and pacify the rebels.

Enjolras, Grantaire, and Eponine knew that this was a terrible idea. None of their friends liked Felix, and his presence would probably set them even more firmly on their quest. Not that they objected to this– they, too, wanted to burn the city for what it had done. But they were worried about their friends. Enjolras tried to persuade Felix not to go, but Felix flew into a rage and beat him to unconsciousness. He tied him to the bed and locked all the doors in the house, just as a further precaution, not even bothering to tell anyone what he'd done. Then, he picked up his bags, got on the train, and left for New York.

Grantaire and Eponine couldn't figure out what had happened. No one seemed to know where Enjolras had gone, not even the young mothers whose children had become friends with Azelma. But clearly, he hadn't gone with Felix, and he didn't seem to be anywhere around the area, even his house, which was locked and shuttered. Matelote and Gibelotte (who had been staying with Grantaire and Eponine in order to care for the children), with more knowledge of the Tholomyes house and what went on there, frowned and tutted and looked so perturbed that finally Grantaire and Eponine went to Enjolras's house to break inside. They could never forgive themselves if something had happened.

It was fortunate that they did. Enjolras, weak and frightened as he was, thought he was about to go out of his mind. He was used to being locked up, of course, but this was different. He was so worried about Combeferre and the others that he could barely see straight, and by the time his friends got to him, he was panicking. After Grantaire untied him, he cried in his arms for a solid hour, until finally, worn out with pain and terror, he collapsed and slept fitfully for a good portion of the evening.

This had been a traumatic experience for all of them. But they couldn't dwell on it for too long, because Combeferre and the others were in immediate danger, and they had to help. So, once Enjolras had recovered some strength, he, Grantaire, and Eponine headed for the station and boarded the first train for New York. They were going to help their friends no matter what.

Combeferre didn't know for sure that Felix was coming to New York to interfere with his plans (though he had his suspicions), but he was far too busy to worry about it even if he had. The day they had set was here, and it was time to occupy City Hall.

He was terribly nervous, and was half-seriously considering modifying his plan to make it less _inflammatory_ (as it were), but his friends kept his courage up, telling him how important it was to be uncompromising in their fight for freedom.

"This is for Feuilly," Joly reminded him. "We must do our best for his sake."

"And for the sake of the people," Courfeyrac added.

Combeferre knew this was true. He couldn't abandon his love, or his fellow man, especially not in this time of distress. No matter what happened, he had to follow through. But he was still worried.

"Are you sure that you all want to do this?" he asked. "Surely, I can accomplish this much by myself. It's a dangerous task, and I would never forgive myself if any of you were hurt."

"Forgive me for speaking so bluntly," said Cosette. "But my friend, it is not your decision whether we go or not. It is ours. If we are hurt, it will be because we aligned ourselves with a cause that we fully believed in, not because we followed you."

"Though, we do follow you, of course," added Joly quickly.

Nothing could truly set Combeferre at ease, but this at least served to calm him a little. He saw that his friends were as devoted to the cause as he was, and had made up their minds to fight with everything that they possessed. Although he was still concerned, and determined to keep them as safe as he could, he knew there would be no leading them away from the action. In that case, he thought, he would fight beside them until he was stopped by imprisonment– or death.

So, he sighed and nodded and held up his pistol. "For Feuilly!" he shouted. The others raised their own weapons.

"For Feuilly!"

"And for the people!"

"For the people!"

Cosette reached for Combeferre's hand. "I'm with you every step of the way," she said. Joly nodded, and took hold of Combeferre's other hand, creating a chain. They knew that they were all connected, and not one would break before all did.

So, connected as they were, they made their way to City Hall, ready to stand and fight, or die.


	9. Chapter 9

The rebels' preparation had been such that at first, no one knew what they were doing. City Hall wasn't well guarded at night, so it was an easy matter for them to get inside. Then, all they had to do was set up, and wait.

This was a more difficult task for some than for others. Combeferre had always been patient, so even if he hadn't been so focused on his task, he would have borne it all patiently. Joly was used to long days in the hospital, and Cosette was good at waiting, having spent countless hours backstage, waiting for a show or rehearsal to start. But others, like Courfeyrac, and fiery, fast-paced Musichetta, quickly grew impatient. By dawn, they were restless and raring to fight.

Combeferre had decided to come into the building at night to make their entrance less noticeable, but this meant they had longer to wait. So, it was early morning by the time their occupation was discovered. At first, the city officials didn't know what was going on, so Marius went out to tell them explicitly that they were under siege. As Combeferre had predicted, they recognized him, and didn't attack him, as they would have if one of the others had come out to talk to them. But they did call for the police, and in a surprisingly short time, the entire force had arrived, guns blazing.

They first tried calling up to Combeferre, telling him they would take him to jail if he came out. This, naturally, had no effect. Combeferre sent down a terse message letting them know that this was possibly the worst method for trying to get him out of the building, and even if it weren't, he would never give up. So, they tried firing a round of shots into the air to see if it would make him come down, and this time, received nothing in reply. Now stymied, they decided to take awhile and regroup to see what they could do.

Combeferre knew that the time was coming for negotiations. He gathered everyone together to make sure they all knew exactly what they were demanding.

"There can be no hesitation," he said. "We have no luxury of stuttering or tripping or stopping to gather our thoughts. We must be purposeful and strong no matter what."

"You should be the spokesperson," said Marius, and several of the others nodded in agreement. But Combeferre sighed.

"I would if I could. But if I go down to talk to them, they will probably shoot me on sight. I don't fear that, but it would be all the worse for the cause if I were to die at this juncture. I'm sorry, Marius, but I think the only one they will listen to is you."

Marius dipped his head in acquiescence, but he didn't say anything else. He knew Combeferre was probably right. He was always right. But the truth was, he was afraid to speak. He had never been brave even in the best of times, always given to shrinking back and letting someone else do the talking. If he had been asked to write a speech, he could do that with ease, but he could never deliver it– heaven forbid! Now, though, he had to face down what seemed like all of New York City. If only Enjolras was here. Surely, he would be able to put these awful people in their place.

Meanwhile, Combeferre was also missing his best friend, but for slightly different reasons. Holed up as he was, he felt his fire waning, and he wanted nothing more than Enjolras's passionate encouragement. He couldn't give up; he knew this very well. But he was intensely worried about his friends. How could he be sure of getting them out of here safely? This was exactly the time that a morale-boosting speech was needed. But there were no speech-makers better than Enjolras, and Enjolras was not there. So, he continued to sit and watch out the window, trying to convince himself to be strong, and biding his time until the police decided to negotiate.

It didn't take as long as he may have suspected. By early afternoon, the police shouted up at the window, asking for capitulation. Combeferre sent Marius down to deal with them, after thoroughly briefing him on what he was supposed to say. He did his best to stay firm, and it must have worked, because soon, he was back upstairs, informing them that their demands were unreasonable, and he had refused to back down.

Combeferre was proud of him. Here he was, this timid, shy young student, turning into such a strong revolutionary. He resisted the urge to give him a hug– he didn't seem nearly as tactile as his brother– and instead clapped him on the shoulder.

"You did well, Marius. I'm glad to have you in our ranks."

Marius ducked his head. He didn't know what to say, but Combeferre's approval meant the world to him. Although he still wasn't exactly sure what he was doing, he was that much more ready to go on.

At about half-past six, the police called up again, asking for someone to come down and talk with them. Marius straightened up from his place in the corner.

"Shall I go down?"

"Yes," Combeferre told him. "But be careful this time. Their terms may have changed. Try not to agree to anything, and try not to make any decisions. Tell them we all need to think it over as a group."

Marius nodded. It was a scary task, but having done it before, he felt a little more prepared this time. He straightened his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and went down.

The chief of police met him in front of the building. He was red in the face, and his uniform was wrinkled at the collar as if he'd been pulling at it.

"So I see you've come down again," he said. "Tell me, why is it that your leader won't show his face?"

Marius tried to put on a lofty expression. "Why should he? You're not worth his time."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes. He'll talk to you once you have anything worth saying."

The police chief made an affronted noise. He reached up to ruffle his collar, then thought better of it, and scowled deeply instead. "Well, you can tell him to come down, then," he said. "We've changed our terms, and I think he'd like to hear them."

"I'll be the judge of that," Marius told him, inwardly shaking. Combeferre had predicted this, but what if it was impossible to put off making a decision? He tried to look as strong as he could.

It seemed to work, because the police chief grunted in disapproval. "Fine. Then, you can tell your precious leader that he has twelve hours. If he gives up within that time, we're willing to negotiate plea bargains for some of you. If not, we're coming in."

"You can't come in," Marius said, though at this point he hardly knew if this was true or not. "You've been trying all this time, and we've still got the building sealed up tighter than a drum. Bluff a little harder, why don't you?"

"Oh, so you're playing tough?" The police chief jabbed one blunt finger into Marius's chest. "Listen, kid. You're in way over your head. Tell that leader of yours to give up, and no one will get hurt."

"No one _white_ , you mean."

The police chief didn't argue. He just poked at Marius one more time. "Twelve hours."

Felix arrived at the scene that night. He'd been around the city during the day, but hadn't gotten in on the action. However, at about 10:00, just as he'd been about to go to bed, Montparnasse had come to knock on his door, asking him to come help. He hadn't particularly wanted to, but he couldn't very well argue, since this could mark a new high point for his reputation. So, preparing himself for a long night, he followed Montparnasse downtown.

Combeferre knew very well that Felix was after him. He'd suspected it ever since he'd returned to his crusade in the city, and now, he knew it was likely that he'd show up here.

He wasn't afraid; on the contrary, this was just one more reason for him to fight the city. Felix was a manifestation of all the world's evil to Combeferre. He had hurt his beloved Enjolras, made his life a living hell, even gone so far as to keep him from the fight. This would be reason enough to loathe him, but he also represented the most oppressive of upper-class regimes, and Combeferre couldn't forgive him for that, not when he flaunted his power so pridefully. There was no doubt about it: he was exactly the sort of person against whom Combeferre and the others were fighting now.

So, when Felix arrived at City Hall, Combeferre refused to talk to him. Marius offered to go down, but the others overruled him, telling him that his familial prejudices might bias the situation. Marius accepted the decision, but took offense at the reasoning behind it.

"Familial prejudices," he scoffed. "Do you really think I would bear prejudice in favor of the man who has terrorized and abused my brother for five years? If anything, I should like to take a pistol and shoot him in the face."

The others agreed with this, but Combeferre told them (not without substantial disappointment) that this would be impolitic and would drastically hinder their cause. So instead, they all kept vigil upstairs, waiting for the city to send them word of further recapitulation.

It didn't take long. Felix was not patient, and, displeased at being dragged out into the streets, was soon urging the police to call someone down. The police, too, were growing tired of the situation, so they called up to the window for Marius to talk to them.

By this time, most of the rebels were bored, and were ready to talk, so they didn't argue. Combeferre still didn't think it was a good idea for Marius to speak with Felix, though, so he decided to send Courfeyrac in his place.

"Be careful," he said. "They will try to appeal to your reputation. Don't let them get to you."

Courfeyrac sniffed contemptuously. "As if I would. What is my reputation compared with the lives of the people? I would gladly give up all my material success for the chance to have Feuilly back with us."

Combeferre knew this was true, so he smiled apologetically, and clasped Courfeyrac's hand. "I know. Do your best, my friend."

"I will."

Courfeyrac headed for the door, anxious to make himself useful at last. He had been feeling restless, and fretting at the lack of action. Unlike Combeferre, he was not a patient man. Now, though, it was his time, and he was ready.

He marched downstairs, full of great purpose, and threw open the doors. Immediately, all attention fell on him. Felix recognized him in no time, and came over to him angrily.

"So it's you," he said.

Courfeyrac nodded. "Hello."

"Are you ready to surrender?" asked Montparnasse, sidling up. He was sick of this game, and wanted it over as quickly as possible. But Courfeyrac stood tall and shook his head.

"We will not surrender. I came down to tell you that all your threats are useless. You may kill us, and destroy the building, but we will not give in."

"But what good would it do to throw your lives away?" Montparnasse came up closer, trying for his best reasonable expression. It was the one he wore when he was extorting money from the citizens of New York, and ordinarily, it was very effective. "Think about it. There's so much more to see in this world. It would be so easy to give up. Take my hand and declare peace. We will make sure that no harm comes to you."

"And to Combeferre?"

"Well. He's a criminal, you know. He must be brought to justice."

"Then I want no part in your peace." Courfeyrac stood up as tall as he could, almost enough to stare Montparnasse dead in the eye. "I will tell you again. Until all of us are free, we will not give in. We fight for everyone, not just white men. When you have accepted that, and are ready to walk the path of _true_ justice with us, only then will I take your hand."

With this, he turned on his heel and stalked back upstairs, ignoring the flabbergasted shouting behind him. He was so angry that he could barely keep himself from turning around to give everyone outside a more thorough dressing-down. Until recently, he had never considered his own position, but now he saw exactly how privileged he was. Instead of being happy about this, though, he was furious. He wanted to destroy the system that would give people like him such power over others.

"Combeferre!" Courfeyrac stormed into the planning room, banging the door open behind him. Everyone looked up in surprise.

"Oh, Courfeyrac, that didn't take long. How was–"

"Combeferre, let me die for this cause!" Courfeyrac grabbed his leader by the front of his shirt, eyes ablaze. "I refuse to live in a world that lives by such unjust rule of law. Maybe my death will be the clarion call to bring us out of this tyrannical night of oppression, and into the dawn of a new age. Let me die, and maybe, just maybe, the people will listen!"

"Oh no, my dear friend. What could possibly have happened?" Combeferre carefully detached Courfeyrac's hand from his shirt, and led him over to sit at the table by the window. He sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. The poor man was trembling, though whether it was from shock or fury, Combeferre couldn't be sure. "Tell me," he said.

"Those _pigs_." Courfeyrac scowled down at the table, jaw clenched. "Combeferre, they told me to make a deal with them. They wanted me to turn you in, in exchange for my own freedom. As if I needed their protection! Now I see, clearly as never before, how unjust this world is, how privileged it is towards people like me. How can I bear to live and see this go on?"

Combeferre wasn't sure what to say. He knew better than anyone how infuriating it was to see injustice in the world, but understandable as Courfeyrac's anger was, it nonetheless stemmed from a place of privilege. Courfeyrac could see now, but he could never truly understand what it was like to live as Combeferre did.

"Listen," Combeferre told him. "Your death might catch some attention, it's true, but it would no doubt be blamed on me. It would be better for the cause if you would live and continue to fight. More importantly, though, you're one of my dearest friends. I don't know if I could recover from the loss of you. And I know for sure that Enjolras would not."

Courfeyrac deflated. He was not so fervid in his passion as to ignore these good points, and as always, the mention of his friends was enough to pull him back to rationality.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Don't worry, I won't leave you. I will fight on, and I will live to see Enjolras again. We will triumph without death."

"That's the spirit." Combeferre leaned in to hug him, just a little longer than usual. They both needed the comfort of an embrace. "Don't worry, my friend. We will see the sun rise yet."

It was barely past two in the morning when Montparnasse called up to the window for Marius to come down. Courfeyrac asked if he should take his place once again, but Combeferre shook his head.

"They asked for him specifically. Probably, Felix has some special proposition for him. Let's see what kind of deal he wants to make now."

So, Marius descended, armed to the teeth, and undeniably nervous. He had no idea what his brother-in-law was going to ask him, but he had the feeling that it couldn't be good.

Sure enough, Felix grabbed at Marius as soon as he came outside, shaking his fist. "What in the hell are you thinking, you ignorant child?" he shouted. "Do you know how embarrassing it is to have you tied up in this? It's bad enough that your sister–"

Marius shook himself free. He was, if possible, even angrier than Felix was. "He's not my sister," he snapped. "Call him by his proper name, or I'll take you down."

"Really? You and your schoolboy army?" Abruptly, Felix seemed to realize where he was, and all that was comprised in the situation. "I didn't call you down here to talk about _Angelica_ ," he said. "Much as it pains me, I have a deal to offer you."

"I don't want to accept anything from you," Marius spat.

"I'm not doing this for you." Felix grabbed at Marius's shirt once again, and pulled him in close enough to glare down his nose at him. "I don't like you. I never did. But you're Angelica's brother. I'm not going to let you die."

"To hell with what you want. Get off me." Marius pushed himself away, backing up to the doors. "You can take your deal and–"

"I was afraid of this. Montparnasse!"

"Right here." Montparnasse slithered up to Marius, somehow not looking any worse for wear than he had earlier in the night. "I know you don't want to listen to him, and I don't blame you. No one in their right mind would trust a wife-beater. But maybe you'll listen to me."

"I won't," said Marius, but with much less conviction. Montparnasse smiled and went on as if this counted as agreement.

"Right. So you see, the police has decided to renege on their twelve-hour agreement. I don't agree with the decision. I may be corrupt, but I at least have honor. So I'm here to offer you a deal. Bring everyone down and have them surrender. I can guarantee you, no one will die. Your leader will be imprisoned, as will that insurgent Musichetta, but some of the rest of you will walk free. And as I say, you'll all live through the night."

Montparnasse stopped talking, hoping Marius would think about it. Although he didn't really see the point of protesting in such a way, he didn't want anyone to be killed. It seemed foolish. He himself had come from an immigrant background, and understood the oppressive nature of the city better than most of his fellow officers.

But Marius shook his head, more gently, it was true, but insistently. "I'm afraid I can't agree to that," he said. "We are together until the end, live or die. We will never turn our backs on each other. Kill us if you will, but we will not budge. Maybe our deaths will mean something in the end."

Montparnasse sighed. He'd been afraid of this. All of the rebels were so damn stubborn and _upright_. They didn't understand the benefits of living for themselves.

"All right," he said. "Go, then. Warn your leader. These are likely your last minutes alive."

Marius turned his back and proudly retreated into the building. He was not afraid to die. This, he knew, was his purpose: to make a difference in the world at last.

Montparnasse took a second to shake away his disappointment. He took a symbolic drink from his flask, honoring the sheer stupidity of the rebels in the building behind him. Then, he made his way over to the chief of police.

"They wouldn't agree," he said.

"I didn't think they would." The police chief nodded, a man just doing his job and not feeling any sort of way about it. "All right, boys. Get in position. Time to clean up the city a little."

The police got in formation, guns and battering ram loaded. Off to the side, Felix stood smiling into his mustache. Finally, this would be the end of all this nonsense. He was finally about to get his peaceful, normal home life back.

Montparnasse stood beside him, looking at him from the side of his eyes, and judging. He didn't like Felix any more than he liked any of the other police officers. There was no way he was going to help with this. He took out his flask again, ready to drown the strange, unfamiliar stirrings of compassion in his chest.

The officers were ready. They cocked their guns, and looked to the chief, waiting for his command.

"Break the door down first."

The men behind the battering ram tightened their grip. The doors weren't that strong. They could definitely destroy them with one blow. And,

"Go."

The men pushed forward. As they'd thought, the door caved like wax, leaving a wide entrance for the artillery to come through. They looked at the chief, and he smiled and held up three fingers.

"On my count, then. Ready."

Montparnasse looked away. He didn't want to see this. It was good that he wasn't looking, really; the chief was smiling wider now, and he looked like a barbarian.

"Aim."

The policemen steadied their arms. They were going to clean up this city, root out the rebels once and for all. They looked to their captain as a body.

And then,

"Stop!"

From sheer shock, everyone did stop, and looked around to find who had spoken. It hadn't been any of the people here, that was for sure. But what newcomer would have the audacity to interrupt such an important proceeding?

They weren't in question long. Like a fey appearing in the mist, a slim white-clad figure came into view, gauzy skirts floating through the ranks of policemen, golden curls fluttering loose, and high heels clicking on the pavement. Unseen, Montparnasse rubbed at his eyes. Was this a wraith? A sprite? An avenging angel come to dispense divine justice?

Only Felix was able to move. He strode forward, shaking with disbelieving fury. "Angelica! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Angelica?"

The police began to murmur among themselves. Could it be…? Montparnasse smiled a secret smile. This was the dramatic moment he had been hoping for. Enjolras was here.

"What am I doing? Why, that's easy. I'm stopping you."

Enjolras's voice rang out as clear as ever, unwavering and bold. Melodious though it was, there was a note of pure steel behind the sweet cadences. None listening could doubt that he was prepared to fight them all by himself if he had to.

Behind him, in the shadow of the building, Grantaire and Eponine looked at each other and smiled. It hadn't been easy to get here, but it had been worth it. Now, they could rest secure. Enjolras was here, and they were going to see justice done.

"Stop me, really?" Felix said now, gripping Enjolras by his frail shoulders. He shook him back and forth, as a dog might shake a kitten. "How are you going to do that? Look at you, you can barely stand. Go home! You don't belong here."

"Let go of me." Enjolras didn't try to shake himself free; he knew he couldn't. Instead, he looked up and _glared_ , pure, chilling, ice. "Take your dirty hands off me, and step away. There are more important things than you right now. At this moment, our lives don't count at all."

Despite himself, Felix was cowed by the naked fury in Enjolras's eyes. He stepped back. "I hope you're happy," he spat. "You and your brother have made this family a laughingstock."

"We were not the ones to do that."

With this, Enjolras turned away. He had nothing else to say about this. Scanning the crowd (all of whom had stopped what they were doing to watch the spectacle), he fixed on Montparnasse, recognizing him as a potential ally (not for nothing was he known as one of the most charming hosts in New Rochelle; he had an unerring and innate skill of identifying the most important person in a room– and on a battlefield).

"Hello, sir," he said, walking up and nodding to him with a strength he didn't feel. Montparnasse bowed.

"Your obedient servant, sir."

"Sir…? Then you know about me."

"It is my pleasure, yes."

"Good." Enjolras grasped him by the hand, as much for camaraderie as to steady himself. "We must waste no time. My dearest friend in all the world is up in that room, doing his best to fight for justice. He may very well be one of the best people in this world, and I would have him live. Let me through. I will go up, and I will talk to him."

"To what end?"

Enjolras smiled grimly. "To die in his place."

Montparnasse couldn't believe his ears. Here was yet another inexplicably passionate activist, ready to martyr himself for a cause that wasn't likely to improve the world at all. It was inscrutable! He squeezed Enjolras by the hand.

"I don't disagree that something must be done, but… why would you throw your life away? You are young and beautiful. Surely, there is a better end for you than this."

"No. For me, there is no better end than the one which builds a freer world." Enjolras nodded, so set in his determination that Montparnasse couldn't help but relent.

"Very well," he sighed. "I will convince the police chief to let you go up and mediate."

"Thank you." Enjolras held him by both forearms, looking him gravely in the eye. "You are a good man. I hope sincerely that you come out of this unscathed, and go on to help more people as you have helped all of us tonight. Blessings be upon you."

Montparnasse didn't know what to say to this. He _wasn't_ a good man, and he didn't help people unless it served his own interest, but now, he felt as if he had been blessed by an angel. He nodded stiffly, and turned away to talk to the police chief, so Enjolras wouldn't see the emotion on his face.

A few minutes later, the police chief came over to Enjolras, who had been standing impassively and watching the crowd. He approached him carefully, as if trying to figure out what someone so beautiful and delicate would be doing in a place like this.

"Good evening," he said. Enjolras nodded, frigidly polite.

"Sir."

"If I am to understand correctly, you wish to go up and speak to the rebels. Is that right?"

"Yes. I have reason to believe that they will listen to me."

The police chief didn't see how this could be, but he also didn't see any harm in letting him try. The situation couldn't possibly get any worse, so this strategy seemed as good as any other.

"Go ahead, then," he said. "But be careful. These rebels are dangerous."

Enjolras just smiled, honey-sweet as always. "So am I."

No one knew what was happening downstairs. When the battering ram had first knocked down the door, Combeferre had assumed it would be the end, so he gathered everyone together to give them a few last assurances. It was emotional, and frightening even for the bravest of them. Every second brought them closer to death. They joined hands and pressed close together, drawing on each other's strength to prepare for the end.

But seconds stretched on, and nothing happened. Finally, Combeferre went to the window to peer out, and it was hard to see much, but there didn't seem to be much going on.

He couldn't figure it out. It could be a psychological tactic, maybe, but these people didn't seem clever enough for that. Or maybe, it was strategic. If they waited long enough to come into the building, they would have time for more reinforcements to arrive. Whatever it was, though, it was almost worse than an outright attack. Poor Marius was pacing back and forth across the floor, tearing at his hair.

"I wish they would let us die," he kept saying.

It was time for an inspirational speech, to rally everyone's courage here at the end. But Combeferre found himself tongue-tied. What could he possibly say to alleviate his friends' suffering? He didn't know. Still, he had to try, so he cleared his throat to draw everyone's attention.

"My friends," he said.

He got no further than that. Before he could even think about going on, there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Combeferre?"

Courfeyrac gasped aloud. "Combeferre, did you hear that voice? It sounded like–"

"It can't be. He's supposed to be safe in Atlantic City." Combeferre looked around the room, and was met with the worst-concealed hopeful faces he had ever seen. "It couldn't be. Could it?"

"Do you think he came back with Felix?" asked Musichetta.

"Or maybe Grantaire and Eponine brought him here," suggested Cosette. "If so, they could all be here."

Combeferre nodded resolutely. He knew it might be a trick, but at this point, there was little else he could do. Besides, if he was going to die, he would much rather die by the side of his best friend.

"Open the door," he said.

Bahorel and Cosette pulled the furniture away from the door, undoing the makeshift barricades that they'd all assembled as a last resort. Then, with a flourish, they undid the lock and threw the door open.

"Enjolras?"

"Oh! Cosette! Bahorel!" Enjolras flung himself at them both, seemingly not caring if they caught him or not. Fortunately, though, they did. Cosette embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks, and Bahorel bodily picked him up and twirled him around the room.

"Enjolras! We thought we'd die without seeing you again. It's so good to have you here!"

"I'm glad to be here, too!"

"Why _are_ you here, though?" asked Combeferre, coming over to greet Enjolras properly. He embraced him so passionately that his little feet left the ground for half a second. "Don't mistake me, my dear, I'm the happiest man alive right now. The fact that I can see you before I die– that's everything. But, I can't help but worry. It's not safe to be here. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"In a sense, yes." Enjolras stepped back so he could look at the whole room at once, determination burning like flintlock in his blue eyes. "Listen, my friends. I have not come here for any idle errand. I confess, I did not know you all would be here, but that is just as well. You see, I am here to convince you of the sanctity of your lives. Combeferre, you have a child. How will he live if you die? And Bahorel, you are the chief of a company full of workers. What will they do without you? And…"

Here, he broke off, trying vainly to catch his breath. Just the effort of climbing the stairs and standing upright had drained him. As he stood doubled over, gasping, Courfeyrac took advantage of his silence to speak up.

"But Enjolras! I thought you believed in our cause! Are you telling us to surrender?"

"No, never," cried Enjolras. "No, my friends, I believe in this cause with all my heart. And that's why I'm here to offer my life as a substitute for yours. You shall all go free, and I shall die instead. It's the only way!"

"What?" Courfeyrac gaped at Enjolras, eyes wide. "My dear, you must be joking. You can't mean that!"

"But I do. I…" Enjolras stopped again, swaying on his feet. There had been black and yellow spots dancing behind his eyes for the past hour, but suddenly, they had grown dizzyingly bright and hard to ignore. His ears were ringing so loudly he could barely hear himself. Nonetheless, he had to speak, had to save his friends from certain doom. "Listen, everyone! There's no need for all of us to die. Think of the future. Think of what you can accomplish if you live to fight another day. You will change the world yet. And I…" He put a hand up to his eyes, trying to steady himself. It was time for him to be strong, now, just a little bit more, and–

"Someone catch him!"

Enjolras barely heard Joly's scream, barely saw Combeferre darting forward to catch hold of him as he crumpled to the ground. All he knew was the darkness in his eyes, swirling, ringing, absorbing everything around it. This, then, this must be death. He closed his eyes, ready and willing for whatever might come.

Combeferre set his now-limp body down on the floor and shook him gently. "Enjolras! Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

"What happened?" wailed Marius. "Is he hurt? Is he _dead_?"

"I don't think he's dead," said Combeferre, praying that he was right. He nudged aside a shock of golden curls to check the pulse-point in his neck. Sure enough, there was a beat there, faint and unsteady, but present– Enjolras was alive. Combeferre looked up, boneless in his relief. "He has a pulse. Beyond that, I don't know. Joly, can you check?"

Joly was there in a flash, kneeling down on the floor to provide what medical examination as was possible. He was as gentle as he could be– not on his watch would his poor, delicate little friend be hurt any more. It must have worked, because Enjolras never made a sound the whole time; he lay as still and pale as the dead, only an occasional flutter of his blue-veined eyelids betraying the fact that he was living at all.

Finally, Joly looked up to see his friends staring at him, breathless with worry. Seeing that the examination was done, Courfeyrac now crept forward, afraid of crowding, but too frightened to stay away.

"What happened, Joly? Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's just fainted," said Joly, and his friends practically wept in relief. Courfeyrac came even closer.

"What prompted this, do you know? Will he wake up soon?"

"He should wake before too long," said Joly, but his voice was grim. "I know you're happy, but this is no time to celebrate. I've never had a chance to look at him thoroughly, and it's bad. Even just from a quick check like this, I can tell that he's not well, physically nor mentally. He's been abused– tortured, more like– for years, and it shows. If he doesn't get away from Felix soon, well. Just… Marius, how do you feel about murdering your brother-in-law?"

"I feel quite good about it," said Marius calmly. "If I come out of this alive, he will have to watch himself."

"Then, it's decided," spoke up Jehan sweetly. "Whoever lives through tonight will kill Felix. All right?"

For a second, no one disagreed. They all sat and thought blissfully about how much better the world would be if Felix were gone. Then, reluctantly, Combeferre shook his head.

"We can't kill him. The good must be innocent, and we must be good."

Musichetta clicked her tongue. "We must be good, yes. But I'm sure there are people who would not mind losing their goodness for a few dollars."

"Are you advocating we hire a hitman?"

"I'm not saying that. But if we did, I know how to find some."

A shout from outside interrupted the conversation, suddenly pulling everyone back into the larger conflict. Combeferre looked at his friends, and they looked back at him, waiting.

"What will we do?" asked Cosette.

Combeferre glanced away, thinking deeply. He wanted to hold the building for as long as he could, yes, but he couldn't deny that Enjolras had made a good point. What would their deaths really mean here, after all? At most, they would be a paragraph in tomorrow's paper. But if they lived through this, there was so much more they could do, especially if someone, Jehan or Courfeyrac, could spin the story cleverly for the public. Easy as it would be to die now, the fact remained that it meant their fight would end.

Then, too, Enjolras's appearance had reminded Combeferre of the people he loved, and whom he was sworn to protect. It would be selfish to leave them now, glorious and revolutionary though it would appear. No, he would live, for Enjolras and the others, for Feuilly and their child, and for the world.

"Everyone," he said. The room was silent, breathless in anticipation. Not even Courfeyrac made a sound. Combeferre leveled his gaze at all of them. "I know this may be hard to accept, so I'm sorry. And I don't want to force my decision on any of you, but… I think Enjolras is right."

Uproar! Joly screamed aloud; Bahorel stomped back and forth across the room; Marius sat down on the floor as if all the air had been sucked out of him. Courfeyrac regarded Combeferre too carefully, peering at him across Enjolras's body.

"Are you suggesting," he said slowly. "That we do as he says, saving our own skins and leaving him to die?"

"What?"

"Because I will never do that. I love and respect you, Combeferre, but Enjolras is too precious to me to follow your orders if it comes down to that. Either we leave with him, or I stay here until the end."

"No, no!" Combeferre flapped his hands at his friends, horrified. "You should know that I would never do anything to hurt or endanger Enjolras. And I would never let him die alone, no matter how great the cause. No, you misunderstood. I propose that we do as he says and leave, taking him with us."

"Ah."

The chaos in the room died down as suddenly as it had arisen, as everyone settled down to listen to Combeferre once again.

"I'm sorry," said Musichetta sincerely. "I know you care deeply about Enjolras. I should never have suspected otherwise."

Combeferre shook his head. "No, it's all right. I know this is a stressful time, and you're right to question what I say."

"Still, though. We should have known."

"So are we leaving?" asked Bahorel bluntly. Combeferre looked at him.

"Is that all right with you?"

Bahorel shrugged. "Might as well. Wouldn't wanna die and leave my workers alone, after all."

"Then, it's decided." Cosette gave her hand to Marius and picked him off his feet, then pointed him towards the door.

The others followed her lead. They assembled at the doorway, lined up and ready to go, waiting only for Combeferre to join them and lead them down. He was still their leader in this endeavor, and they would walk behind him all the way.

Accordingly, Combeferre didn't dawdle. He carefully reached under Enjolras and scooped him up, cradling him protectively against his chest. If he woke up on the way down, he might be upset at the lost opportunity to martyr himself, but at least he would be safe. The poor thing. His life wasn't an easy one either. Combeferre kissed him on the forehead before straightening up to go to the door.

"It'll be all right," he said. "We'll definitely make things better, for you and me and all of us, so don't worry. We'll fight together."

Then, without waiting to second-guess himself, he strode over to the door, took his place with his friends, and prepared to descend to the city.

Montparnasse was bored watching the building. He didn't know whether or not Enjolras would be successful in his mission, and he was so occupied in trying not to feel nervous (because he was _Montparnasse_ ; he never felt any emotions whatsoever, especially _concern_ ) that the minutes seemed to be stretching on.

So, when he heard a footfall inside the ruined foyer of the building, he whipped around with a distinct loss of his trademark careless grace, and went to meet whoever would emerge.

"Who's there?" he called. "Enjolras?"

"Yes, he's here."

Montparnasse tried hard not to feel relieved. He blew out a contemptuous sigh. "Ah, so he didn't die after all. Well, good for him. Who else made it out?"

Slowly, Combeferre came out of the building. He looked haggard, tired and weary, but there was also a new glint of determination in his eyes.

"Here I am," he said.

Montparnasse looked at him, the injured angel lying inert in his arms, and the makeshift army of fatigued revolutionaries behind him. Then, he looked back at the crowd of police officers on the street, headed by the vicious-looking chief. This was a mismatch if he'd ever seen one, no matter how fired-up Combeferre might be.

"Are you ready to surrender?" he asked. "Leave yourselves to the mercy of the law, and you will live another day."

But Combeferre looked him in the eye, tall and proud. "I am not here to surrender."

"Then what?"

"I am here to live, yes. But I will never give in. I am merely postponing my fight until another time. Arrest me if you will, but do not consider this a victory."

"I see."

Montparnasse actually didn't see how this distinction made much of a difference, practically speaking. But he had no real loyalty to the police force or to the city, and he was half-ready to let all the rebels go. He looked around to see if the coast was clear, then, seeing that it was, gestured elegantly towards the street.

"Go on with you, then. Get him to a doctor. Fight another day."

Combeferre blinked in confusion. "You're letting us go?"

"Why not?"

"Well, I…"

Here, Combeferre was interrupted by a sweet, soft groan and a weak tug on his shirt. Enjolras had finally stirred.

"'Ferre? Is that you?"

"It's me," Combeferre hastened to assure him. "Don't worry, I have you. You're safe."

"Where am I?"

"City Hall. Do you remember what happened?"

"Ah… a protest? You were– Wait! 'Ferre!" Enjolras clutched at the front of Combeferre's shirt once again, suddenly much stronger. "Are you safe? What happened? Is everyone all right?"

"We're all right," Combeferre told him. "We decided to come down."

"Oh no!"

Enjolras wriggled in his arms, obviously wanting to be set down on his own feet. Combeferre didn't necessarily think this was a good idea, but he didn't want to get between the man and his pride, so he carefully lowered him to the ground and looped a casual arm around his waist, just in case. Now thusly arranged, Enjolras looked around him in horror.

"I was going to die for you! I'm happy that you're all safe, make no mistake about that. But the cause…"

"Is your cause more important than your life?" drawled Montparnasse, feeling that it was time for him to offer his input. Enjolras glared at him.

"Yes!"

"That's foolish. What good will you do to anyone dead?"

"Not any less good than I would do alive!"

Combeferre looked at him in distress, but he didn't get a chance to say anything, because Felix came stomping up to the scene.

"What's going on?" he shouted. "Angelica! What are you trying to do?"

"What you couldn't. I'm trying to save us."

"Who's _us_? Angelica, are you aligning yourself with those rebels?"

"Yes." Enjolras stood up, tall and proud. It took every muscle in his body to do it, but it was worth it to see the rage in Felix's eyes.

Unfortunately, this lasted only a second. Felix growled furiously and struck. He grabbed Enjolras roughly by the arm and twisted him away from Combeferre, ignoring his involuntary cry of pain.

"Come with me, whore."

"Enjolras!" Combeferre reached for his friend, but it was too late. He looked desperately to his friends and Montparnasse (any port in a storm, after all). "Someone help him!"

No one could do anything. Felix was unstoppable, monstrous in his wrath. Before everyone's horrified eyes, he dragged Enjolras away, put of sight behind the building. No one could see what he was doing back there, but it wasn't hard to guess.

In their own little corner, Grantaire and Eponine were seething. They had seen everything, and though they had been too far away to interfere, they knew they weren't about to take this lying down. Throwing caution to the winds, they emerged from behind the building, Eponine first, and then Grantaire.

"What's going on here?"

"Oh!" Joly pointed to them, shrieking as if his life depended on it. "Everyone, look! Look who's here!"

"Eponine? Grantaire?" Combeferre approached them, arms outstretched. This was a serious and terrible moment, but even so, he was delighted to see his friends. He clasped then both by the hand, attempting his best smile. "I'm so glad to see you here. I wasn't sure when I would see you again."

"We were afraid it would be too late," said Eponine. "Once we heard about what was happening, we knew we couldn't sit around idly and wait for news. We rescued Enjolras and came here on the overnight train as soon as he was strong enough to move without fainting. But even so, it was difficult. We came when we could, but I think we missed a lot."

Combeferre had really only heard one part of this. "Rescued Enjolras? But I thought you were all safe in Atlantic City!"

"Safe," Eponine snorted. "Impossible. No one could be safe with Felix around. He left Enjolras tied up in the house for god knows how long and came here. If we hadn't broke in there, there's no telling what would have happened."

Combeferre's face was dark with wrath. He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, trying to get himself under control. If he did anything rash now, all of them could suffer for it. He was so angry that he didn't even dare to speak, afraid of what would come out, but he did gesture at his friends, calling them in close.

"Tell them," he said.

Grantaire and Eponine took turns telling about life on the beach, finishing with a detailed account of Felix's violence towards Enjolras before his departure for New York. They didn't even make an attempt to be dispassionate; this was too upsetting for everyone. By the end, Joly was in tears.

"How could he do such things? Poor Enjolras! We have to do something to help!"

His words brought everyone's attention back to the present situation. No doubt about it, Felix was doing something awful behind the building. Cosette put one arm around Joly, and with the other, pulled out her gun.

"I'm going back there," she said. "And I'm going to shoot him."

"No, let me," pleaded Marius. Cosette considered.

"Well, I suppose Enjolras _is_ your brother. But have you ever fired a gun before?"

"Nooo, not exactly… but I'm sure I could do it!"

"We don't want to have any mistakes," Musichetta pointed out. "This is a job we must complete on the first try."

It was a mark of how upset Combeferre was that he didn't try to turn his friends from violence. Even the gentlest soul may be pushed to extremes, and at this moment, Combeferre had reached a breaking point. So when Courfeyrac looked at him, he just shrugged.

"Try not to miss."

The others were thinking about this, when a terrified, high-pitched scream came from behind the building. It was weak and hoarse, and sounded involuntary, as if it had been drawn out through the worst of methods. Immediately, everyone was all attention.

"Was that Enjolras?"

"What is Felix doing?"

"Come on, we have to get back there!"

Combeferre pushed his friends forward, then, frustrated with the slowness of their pace, ran ahead. He had a knife in his pocket and two guns strapped in holsters at his side, and he wasn't afraid to use any of them to defend Enjolras.

He was so caught up in his mission that he didn't notice Montparnasse slinking along next to him, glaring angrily at everyone who might possibly get in their way. But Eponine did notice, and gave him a small side-eyed smile. Here was a potential ally.

Everyone reached the building more or less at the same time. Nonetheless, Combeferre was the one who strode into the space without hesitation, too passionately upset to worry about consequences.

"Enjolras!" he shouted. "Are you all right? Are you–"

Here, he stopped, overcome with horror. Very clearly, Enjolras was _not_ all right. He was injured in too many places, looked too much like one of the patients from Joly's clinic. But worse than this, so much worse, he was kneeling on the ground, head forced back, with the barrel of a shotgun in his mouth. Felix was glaring down at him with a strange light in his eyes.

"Do you taste that?" he hissed. "Is this how you thought you would go? Tell me, do you have anything to say?"

He pulled the gun out of Enjolras's mouth long enough for him to spit blood, defiant even now.

"Shoot me," he said.

Felix growled and replaced the gun. He barely looked like a man anymore. Combeferre was under no illusions that this was going to be the end, and this knowledge was enough to unstick him from his place. He reached down to pull one of his guns from his belt. Maybe if he worked fast enough, he could shoot Felix before he killed Enjolras.

But then, there was a hand on his arm, and Montparnasse looked him in the eyes. "Don't," he said.

"What?"

"I know what you're thinking. But you can never do it in time. I will do it. But you must distract Felix."

"Distract him? Won't he just take that opportunity and shoot?"

"No. Use the others. They will help."

Combeferre turned then, and saw that his friends had joined him. They looked awful; he had never seen such horror and fear on anyone's face before, and he never wanted to again. However, he was sure that he looked the same.

"My friends," he said. "There is no time to lose. We must save Enjolras."

"But how?" wailed Marius. "He'll shoot any minute!"

Eponine shook her head. "I don't think so. Look at him; he's having fun."

Marius looked. Sure enough, Felix was grinning maniacally, obscenely sliding the gun in and out of Enjolras's mouth and spewing horrible, horrible words. Despicable though it was, he clearly was enjoying himself. Marius thought he was going to be sick.

"How did it come to this?"

Combeferre clapped him on the shoulder. "That doesn't matter. Come on, we have to distract him."

"Distract him? What about kill him?"

"Montparnasse is doing that."

Eponine nodded. "Good. I had a feeling we could trust him. All right then, what will we do?"

"Couldn't we just overpower him?" asked Bahorel. "There are so many more of us. And many of us are strong."

But Combeferre frowned and shook his head. "No. Ordinarily I would agree, but Felix has a gun. I am unwilling to take any chance with Enjolras's life in the balance."

Bahorel had to concede that this was a good point. "What should we do instead?" he asked. "If we surprise him, do you think he will shoot?"

"He may. So maybe we should try to draw Enjolras's attention instead. Felix will try to see what he's looking at, and that way, we can distract him without surprising him."

"Spoken like a true strategist." Cosette tried to smile and couldn't quite do it, but she did slap Combeferre on the back as a sign of her approval. "All right. You and Grantaire go up to the edge of the building and try to get his attention. He'll definitely notice you two."

"And we'll be right behind you," added Eponine. "Don't worry about that. But Cosette's right; you're definitely the ones to best catch his eye."

Eponine and Cosette were usually right, especially if they were in agreement, so no one argued. Instead, they all got into position behind Combeferre and Grantaire as they crept up to subtly catch Enjolras's attention.

It didn't take long. Even in the direst of straits as he was, Enjolras hadn't lost any of his acuity. He soon noticed Combeferre and Grantaire gesturing at him, and stiffened. His friends couldn't be here! Felix would hurt them, and he wouldn't be able to do anything, and–

"What are you looking at, whore?" Felix yanked his head back, hard, forcing him to look up once again. "You getting scared? You want to beg for your life?"

Enjolras managed to shake his head, even with the gun in his mouth and Felix's grip on his hair. He couldn't let Felix know his friends were here, couldn't put them in danger.

However, the fear in his eyes gave him away. Even in his derangement, Felix knew that he wasn't afraid of death for himself, and so this new expression must be caused by another player on the scene. Accordingly, Felix turned around, and saw Combeferre and Grantaire looking at him with hatred in their eyes.

"Felix," Grantaire hissed.

Felix merely tightened his hold on the gun in Enjolras's mouth. "Don't try anything," he said. "I can shoot faster than you can move."

Enjolras looked piteously at his friends, eyes wide. He didn't want them to be hurt in any way, even psychologically, and for them to see his death would surely be upsetting. But he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't warn them away, and the panic and despair he felt was overwhelming. He had to do something. But what could he do, helpless as he was?

Combeferre started towards him, and desperately, in a last vain hope, he tried to speak around the barrel of the gun. It didn't come out intelligibly, but it was enough for Felix to pull the gun out of his mouth.

"Did you want to say something?"

Enjolras tried to remember how his mouth worked. He was bleeding everywhere, and there was a horrible taste of metal on his tongue, but that wasn't important now, not when his friends' lives were on the line. For them, he would bear any number of indignities. He looked up at Felix.

"Please–"

"Please what, whore? You want to live?"

"No. Shoot me if you want. But the others, you can't–"

"Can't? Are you trying to tell me what to do?"

Felix raised the gun, and before anyone could even cry out, he had smashed the handle against Enjolras's forehead. Enjolras crumpled to the ground without so much as a whimper, barely conscious.

On the sidelines, the others surged forwards, unable to stand and watch anymore. But before they could reach Enjolras, Felix grinned hideously and pointed the gun at him.

"One more step and I shoot."

"You won't," said Eponine, but her voice was shaking. She was afraid to call his bluff this time.

Felix's finger tightened on the trigger. "I will."

And then, a shot rang out. Felix fell forward, and Montparnasse stepped out from behind him, smoking gun in hand.

"It's done," he said.

No one moved for a second. Then, Enjolras tried to push himself up onto his knees, and Grantaire was at his side in a flash to help him. As if unfrozen by this, the others raced forwards as well, babbling.

"Enjolras! Are you all right?"

"Did he hurt you too much?"

"Can you talk?"

Enjolras struggled in place. For the first time, Grantaire could see that his hands were tied in front of him with a strip of white cloth, obviously torn from his own clothes. He quickly pulled out his pocketknife to cut the knot, and just as quickly regretted it when Enjolras's eyes went wide.

"Are you…"

"No, no! I'm sorry, angel. I just wanted to free you."

"Ah." Enjolras twisted to present his hands, calmed. "Then, please. Free me."

Grantaire carefully cut the knot, astounded by this display of trust. Enjolras had just faced death two times over, and yet he was still willing to let Grantaire put a knife close to him? It was amazing.

"Are you all right?" asked Combeferre, as if echoing Grantaire's thoughts. "I know all of this had to be an ordeal for you."

Enjolras tried to smile. "It was nothing. You all faced the same."

"Not precisely."

"But never mind that." Enjolras shifted again, settling himself against the support of Grantaire's body so he could address everyone. "Listen, our work still isn't done. With all the police so distracted, and with the big event supposedly over for the night, we must go free Feuilly. No one will think to guard the prison closely now. No one–"

Here, he broke off, too weak to finish, determined, yet physically unable to form the words. There was a bead of blood swelling from his mouth, but he tried to wipe it away before anyone could see, uncooperative though his body seemed to be. This was no time for human frailty.

"We must continue what you have started here," he began. Combeferre looked at him in concern as he let his eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed.

"You shouldn't try to speak. Save your strength."

"No!" With a supreme effort, Enjolras forced himself upright once again. "My friends, this is no time to worry about me, not when there is so much more to be concerned with. Justice is on the horizon. Change…"

Combeferre took Joly by the elbow, as Enjolras paused again, trying to breathe. "Do you think he's right?" he asked quietly.

"I do, but not if he plans to go with us. He needs rest and care, not more danger."

"Agreed."

"Then, can we possibly persuade him to go home? At the very least, he could provide a safe house for us."

"Are you serious," Eponine wanted to know. She had been listening in. "Joly, I know you aren't a criminal, but even you should be able to see that Enjolras's house is the least safe place of all. With Felix dead, the police will be swarming all over. No, we need to find somewhere else."

Joly knew this was true. Very likely, none of them would be able to go home for awhile. But where could they go in the interim? He had no idea. Never in his life had he dealt with these things.

Fortunately, there was someone who had. Montparnasse smiled lazily at the group.

"Don't worry. I know a place. I'll take you there right now, if you wish."

"Really?" Joly smiled back at him, bright, trusting gratitude. "Thank you so much. That's so kind."

"I'm not sure it is," drawled Eponine. She pointed at Montparnasse, half-smirking. "What exactly are you getting out of this, hmm? Why do you want to help?"

Montparnasse shrugged. "Why not? It seems like the thing to do."

"See? He's kind!" Joly smiled around his group of friends, fixing finally on Enjolras. Only then did his face dim. He came over to kneel down next to him, and reached for his hand, even gentler than before. "Is that all right? Can we take you to Montparnasse's house? Combeferre will rescue Feuilly, but we should get you comfortable and safe."

"Mm." Enjolras slowly shook his head, as if trying to settle his vision. He looked rather dazed; Joly wondered if he had heard any of their conversation at all. "I don't. Montparnasse's house?"

"Yes. He has a safe house, apparently. We can take you there and you can rest."

"I can't, though. Feuilly…"

"Feuilly will be in good hands with Combeferre," Joly assured him firmly. "You can't expect to undertake a rescue mission in a state like this, can you?"

"Ah… I suppose not." Enjolras sighed, feeling horribly guilty. If only he weren't so _weak_ , maybe he could do something to help the world for once.

But, wait. Even so, maybe there was something he could do. "Joly," he said. "I will go to the safe house. But first, I need to talk to the chief of police."

Joly frowned. "Why?"

"I will tell him, no, convince him, that this whole uprising was my idea. I will take the blame for all of us."

"I was afraid you would say something like that." Joly turned around to look at the others. "Combeferre!"

Combeferre was there in a second. "What's the matter?"

"Enjolras has an idea," Joly told him.

Combeferre didn't like the sound of this. Recently, most of Enjolras's ideas had been horribly self-destructive.

"What is it?" he asked, not without trepidation.

"I'm going to take the blame for tonight's events," Enjolras said, and scowled when no one leapt to encourage him. "Don't you think it's a good idea? This way, all of you will face much less danger. And I could finally do something to help."

"But Enjolras." Combeferre swallowed carefully, unsure of how to proceed with this next part. "I don't doubt your intentions, my dear, but have you really thought this through? What if they send you to jail?"

"Then I will join the ranks of heroes like Feuilly." Enjolras smiled sweetly at his friends, persuasive as he knew how. "Think about it. You must admit that this is a good way to settle things."

Combeferre was thinking about Enjolras going to jail, fragile little flower trapped in the roughest place in the city. There would be abuse, and deprivation, and likely, Enjolras would try to start some sort of uprising and get himself in trouble, and no one would be able to help. He shuddered.

"I can't let you do this. You've suffered enough. It wouldn't be right to put you through this as well."

"I am not some sickly child to be protected, Combeferre!" Enjolras's voice was weak, but his eyes blazed. "I make this choice as an adult, as a member of this society, and as your friend. I know the risks well. But to place my life and _comfort_ above the wellbeing of those around me– you, whom I love so much, and those in our community whom I have not yet been acquainted with– that would be despicable. If you object to this as a matter of honor, then of course I will say no more. But if your protestations stem merely from some misguided notion of protecting me, then I would urge you to think again. Am I truly more important than those around me?"

"You are to me," murmured Grantaire. Enjolras looked up at him.

"What?"

"I don't object as a matter of honor," said Combeferre, drawing Enjolras's attention back. "The strategist in me can see that it would be beneficial. But the human in me knows that it would be too much to ask you to do this. It's too dangerous. You could spend the rest of your life in misery."

"My life up 'til now has been spent in misery," Enjolras said dryly. Combeferre sighed.

"Is that not all the more reason for you to take care of yourself now?"

"I don't think they'll send me to jail," Enjolras said abruptly. The others just looked at him.

"Come again?"

"I'm white, rich, attractive– and now, bereaved of my husband. Do you really think they would send me off like that? I will probably have to pay a fine, or maybe go to court. But I don't think I will go to jail, and I _don't_ think I will have to spend the rest of my life in misery, as you say. Think about it. Can you really see them doing that?"

"He's right," said Cosette slowly. "I was once in a similar position– well. I did break the law, actually. But I got away with it. No one wanted to take me away from the stage."

"But." Combeferre frowned, still unconvinced. He couldn't see this as anything but disastrous, no matter what anyone might say. "Grantaire! Do you agree with this?"

This was a tricky situation. Grantaire didn't really know what he thought. On the one hand, there was the cause. But on the other, there was Enjolras. Even the slightest possibility of danger seemed too much.

"I don't know," he said. "It does seem risky."

"Am I to cower in fear of _risk_?" Enjolras grasped him by the lapels of his coat, feebly, but with intent. "My life is not sacred. I am as ready to die as any of you. But in this, I don't think I even have to be afraid. My position in society will protect me, and will finally do some good in this world."

The others murmured among themselves. Enjolras was persuasive; there was no doubt of that. He was a brilliant speaker, even now, with so much fire lying behind his words that he couldn't help but be convincing. But was it really all right to let him do this? It seemed wrong, somehow, especially with Combeferre biting his cheek and looking as if he were in physical pain.

"If you do this," said Eponine. "Is there any chance that we will see you again?"

Enjolras stuck out his lower lip. If he had been just a little younger, it would have been a pout. "Yes! I told you, they won't send me to jail. I'll be there at Montparnasse's house to greet you when you come home with Feuilly!"

"Hmm." Musichetta took a breath, preparing for battle, and looked Combeferre right in the eyes. "I think we should let him do it."

"'Chetta."

"No, I know. I don't like it either. But you can't deny that it would be a godsend."

"But, just the idea of him going there alone…"

"He won't be alone," said Courfeyrac suddenly. Enjolras blinked at him.

"What?"

"I'll go with you. I'll assume partial responsibility. That would be more plausible anyway, since I've been here in the thick of the action this whole time."

Combeferre groaned in acute distress. Now _both_ his best friends were going to jail. Things couldn't possibly get any worse than this.

"Please," he said, but his friends weren't listening.

"Courfeyrac, that's really quite a good idea," said Cosette. "You share the same privileges that Enjolras does, and are just as likely to be let off easily. This may actually work."

"I'm sure it will," agreed Musichetta. Courfeyrac smiled at them both, dimpled sunshine.

"I'm so glad you think so. And so if there are no other protestations, shall we?"

Combeferre was going to argue again, tell them all exactly what he thought about this, but before he could, Grantaire cleared his throat.

"It's your choice to go, and I support it if you really think it's best. But I want to go too."

Now the tables had turned. Enjolras looked up, horrified. "Grantaire, you can't! They'll definitely arrest you, and then you'll go to jail, and you…" he broke off, emotional, and hid his face against Grantaire's coat. This was just too much, and he couldn't condone it.

"I agree. It would be stupid of you to do that." Eponine scooted over and pinched Grantaire on the cheek, not quite teasingly. "Enjolras and Courfeyrac could get away with it, and I'm sure they will. But if you or I were to try it, we would be arrested immediately. These people won't see us as anything but immigrants, different from them, and thus, deserving of scorn. I understand your feelings, Grantaire, but if you go out there, you will surely regret it."

"But…"

"Please," whispered Enjolras. "If you were hurt, or arrested, or anything at all, I don't know how I would bear it."

Grantaire had been absently stroking his hair while the others were talking. Now, he stilled his hand in astonishment.

"Enjolras, do you mean that?"

"I do. I can't… just, please. Please be safe."

This was all that he needed to say. Grantaire knew he wouldn't deny Enjolras anything, especially not when it was asked like this. So he put his hand back up to wind through the boy's silky curls, trying to calm him down.

"As you wish, then. Don't worry, I'll go straight to Montparnasse's house. And I'll be there to greet you when you come."

"Oh– thank you, Grantaire." Enjolras sat up, forgetting about everyone around him. All he could see was Grantaire, smiling down at him, looking so sweet. He reached up a shaking hand to cup his sturdy cheek, loving the feeling of bristles on his hand.

"I know everything will be all right. We're going to succeed, and we'll come back. _I'll_ come back… to you."

"I'll be waiting."

They looked into each other's eyes, and Enjolras had never done that with anyone before, never felt the urge to satisfy this most cliche of dime-novel tropes, but now he thought he saw the point. Grantaire's eyes were perfect, so warm, so kind, so _loving_ that he thought he would never be able to look away.

He had to, though, especially when Eponine tapped him on the shoulder, and he came back to earth with a start.

"We should get going," she said. "The police aren't going to be there forever."

"Right."

Enjolras tried to struggle to his feet and failed, cursing under his breath. He was so weak, so powerless, even in this most important time. Fortunately, Grantaire lifted him up and set him aright, easy as anything.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"Yes. I can do nothing else."

"Then, all I can do is wish you luck. I know you don't need it, because you'll definitely succeed. But, please be safe."

"I will." Enjolras squeezed his hand, just briefly (not long enough), and turned to Courfeyrac. "Are you ready?"

"Almost."

Courfeyrac swooped Jehan up in his arms and kissed him soundly, then did the same to Marius and Cosette. Then, he clasped Combeferre by the hand.

"Be safe," he said.

Combeferre nodded. "You too. Both of you."

"'Ferre!" Enjolras stumbled over to him, maybe a bit fast and ungainly, and threw himself into his arms. He clung on for dear life, trying not to cry. Suddenly, all the stresses of the night were catching up to him, and he was distraught.

Combeferre clutched him tightly, too. He had no way of knowing if this would be the last time they would see each other. He hoped it wouldn't be, but seeing how everything else had played, he couldn't be too optimistic.

"Enjolras," he said. "Please, be careful."

"I will. And you be careful, too. Please come back."

"I'll do my best," Combeferre told him.

Enjolras held on for just a bit longer, but soon he broke away, trying to keep his face strong. He knew he had to go, and go now.

"Wait for one minute," he said. "Once we have the police's attention, go to the prison as quickly as you can. Then when you have Feuilly, come to Montparnasse's house. Do you know where it is?"

"I gave the address to Eponine," said Montparnasse. "But Enjolras, don't you think it would look a bit better if I brought you to the police chief and told him that I'd apprehended you?"

"Better for whom, for you?"

"Well, yes. But I _am_ helping you, you know."

Enjolras laughed just the tiniest bit. "Very well," he said. "Take us, then."

Montparnasse grasped him by the arm, pretending he wasn't merely trying to support him, and gestured for Courfeyrac to come over and walk by his side.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go. Follow my lead, all right?"

"Or you could follow mine," Enjolras suggested, but Courfeyrac shushed him.

"Montparnasse knows more about the police than we do."

Enjolras had to concede this was true. He waved once more at the rest of his friends, and then, before he could be overwhelmed and start crying, turned back, jaw clenched.

"Lead the way."


	10. Chapter 10

Despite his friends' misgivings, Enjolras's plans worked out almost perfectly.

The police chief, tired and annoyed, was glad enough to accept Montparnasse's explanation and send Enjolras and Courfeyrac on their way with not much more than a slap on the wrist and a promise not to do it again (which neither of them had any intention to keep). Now free, Montparnasse showed them to his safe house, where Grantaire, Joly, and most of the others were already waiting. They immediately put Enjolras to bed and sat down around him to keep vigil until the others arrived.

Meanwhile, Combeferre, Bahorel, and Musichetta were having a bit more difficult of a time. They broke into the prison easily enough (as Enjolras had predicted, security was light) but once inside, they were faced with the fact that they would have to take Feuilly and leave all the other prisoners behind. It was a horrible thought; no one deserved to suffer like this. Combeferre went through his own emotional crisis, until finally, Musichetta slapped him and told him to get himself together, and he put away the pain and guilt for later.

Feuilly's cell was easy to find. It was at the end of the block, with all the political dissidents. Musichetta, who had been confined in this very block herself, confidently led the way until finally, they were standing before the door. Then, with great ceremony, she handed Combeferre the hammer-and-pick set she had brought to break the lock.

"If you would like to do the honors, sir?"

Combeferre took the tools with trembling hands. Finally, he was about to see his love again. It had been so long, and he knew things would never be the same, but how would this moment be?

Suddenly impatient, he struck at the lock, clumsily maneuvering until it broke and the door slid open. "Feuilly?" he called.

"Combeferre?"

There was a scuffle and a hoarse cry, and then Feuilly was stumbling through the door, weeping and babbling unintelligible words, and then he was in Combeferre's arms, and that was all that mattered in this world and the next.

Musichetta and Bahorel, knowing that this reunion was too sacred for any other eyes, turned away to allow Combeferre and Feuilly their few moments of bliss. This was not meant for them to see.

All too soon, though, Musichetta grew antsy, knowing that they had to leave before they were discovered. So, not without regret, she instructed the others to pick Feuilly up and go.

"We can go out the way we came," she said. "Don't be distracted, now. The most important thing is to get Feuilly to safety."

Combeferre and Bahorel agreed with this most heartily. They did as she said, lifting Feuilly up between them (it wasn't hard– he had suffered so much in prison that he weighed barely more than a child), and headed for the exit.

Miraculously, they weren't stopped. They made it out of the prison without incident, and made their way through the streets, hearts in their throats, until finally they had reached Montparnasse's door. Musichetta gave the password, and they poured inside, so filled with adrenaline that they could barely contain themselves.

"We made it," gasped Bahorel. "Montparnasse, it worked! We made it!"

Montparnasse smiled, genuine for once. Although he wouldn't admit it, these rebels had won his heart. No more was he the selfish, callow dandy, living for himself in the underbelly of the city. He had seen a flash of light, and was drawn to it almost involuntarily. Never again would the street's song sound the same.

"I'm glad," he said. "I didn't know if you would make it, but I'm glad. Now, come in here. I'm sure the others want to see you."

He was right. The others were riotous in their joy. They kissed Feuilly at least three times each, and cried, and shouted their praises and thanks in such loud voices that Montparnasse, worried, went around the house to put extra deadbolts on all the doors.

Emotional as all this was, it seemed tame compared to the moment when Enjolras saw Feuilly again. Ignoring the admonitions of his friends, he sprang out of his bed and ran to Feuilly, sobbing words that made no sense. Feuilly ran towards him, too, but neither of them were strong enough to pick the other up as they wanted to do, and they ended up in a pile on the floor, holding each other and crying. It was only after several minutes that they would finally allow themselves to be separated.

Overjoyed though everyone was to be reunited, it was late, and Feuilly was sick and weak from his months in prison. He needed care now, and celebration would have to wait until later. So Joly took him into the bathroom to clean him up and assess the level of damage that had been done to him, while Combeferre made him up a cozy bed to rest in. The others weren't particularly helpful, and in fact got in the way more than anything else, but everyone was so happy that it barely mattered in the end.

When everyone finally went to sleep for the night (or morning, really, since it was past dawn now), they did so all in the same room, because they couldn't bear to be apart. Most even climbed into bed with someone else, needing the reassurance that such closeness would offer. Maybe, in the eyes of society, it wasn't proper. But what did that matter? There was love between them all, and where there is love, there is goodness.

Despite all this rejoicing, recovery was slow for everyone. Feuilly had much to deal with after his year in prison, both mentally and physically. He had been so scarred that he was afraid he would never recover, and after a few weeks, he began to give in to despair. But Combeferre, who barely left his side, tried to reassure him.

"It's true, you will never be the same," he said. "You've been through hell, and you can never be the man you were before that. But that's not bad. It merely means you've changed. You can grow from here, grow and heal and become even better than you already are. This has changed you. But it does not define you."

Feuilly didn't know if he could do this. Combeferre might be putting too much faith in him, he thought. Nevertheless, he felt a little better after this talk, and promised himself once again that he would try to rise up and overcome.

He wasn't alone. His friends stayed with him throughout his recovery, sticking close by his side even on the worst days. They were maybe not the most tactful, but their love was real. For the first time in his life, Feuilly felt like he was truly protected and cared for.

After a few months, he was strong enough to hold his baby again, and when he did, he thought his heart would burst. This was different from anything he'd ever experienced, and it was scary, but wonderful for all that. After that, he found it a bit easier to work on healing each day.

Combeferre watched all this, and struggled. He blamed himself for everything that had happened, even things that had no connection to him at all. However, he didn't want to complain or let anyone know that things were less than perfect for him. It was more than he could ask for to have Feuilly back in his life, he thought, and he didn't deserve to seek anything more.

Enjolras was the one who helped him through this. He, too, was struggling through his own recovery, but he was well-acquainted with melancholy, and saw the same signs in Combeferre as he knew in himself. So he did his best to talk with him, trying to get to the heart of the issues that plagued him, trying to provide counsel as best he could.

It took a long time, longer than he would have wished, but in the end, it worked. Combeferre, though not fully healed, became more ready to confront his own pain. He stopped treating Feuilly so delicately, and started thinking of himself as a person once again. It was a long, hard road, not easy for anyone. But he had taken the first step.

During this time, Enjolras was trying to get used to living without Felix. He was safe now, yes, but he felt extraordinarily guilty, and though he didn't want to admit it, was traumatized from Felix's final night. When he changed his wardrobe for a year's worth of mourning, it was as much for himself as for social convention.

It was hard, too, to get used to living without fear. He would still panic and flinch when the people around him so much as raised their voices. Even his friends often terrified him. And sometimes, he couldn't bring himself to speak to anyone. But as the months passed, he began to live more easily. When he found himself actively making friends with the people of New Rochelle– and Harlem– and the tenements– he knew that he had overcome the worst.

A little more than a year later, when Enjolras had put away his black clothes, and Combeferre had finally started giving concerts again, Musichetta approached the others with an idea.

"We are all interested in justice," she said. "And we all share the same outlook. How would it be if we created our own group, dedicated to the liberation of the people?"

"Do you mean like your movement?" asked Eponine. Musichetta shook her head.

"Not quite. My movement is closer to a political party. I think our group should operate on a quieter scale. We would be the group in the back room of a cafe, drawing up plans to change the future."

Unsurprisingly, Enjolras was in love with this idea. He threw himself headlong into the work, so enthusiastically and competently that his friends unanimously voted him to be the leader. He was pleased with this, and took to his new role as if he'd been born to it.

The others were happy, too. This was a way of making a difference, of creating a better world for everyone. They began to make great headway on their plans, and soon, their name was known throughout the entire city.

Montparnasse helped with this. He had undergone a transformation on that fateful night, and was now committed to doing good, although he never would admit it. He had maintained all of his underworld connections, and used them to help the cause, unwittingly creating a spirit of hope and optimism within the depths of the city.

He was not the only one to undergo a change. At first, Grantaire had been skeptical of the cause, kept in place by his cynic's heart and lack of faith. But as time went on, he began to see that there really was good to be found in the world, and that he himself could work to protect and even create that good.

Eponine saw this change, and was delighted. She pointed it out one day, after he had opposed a point at their meeting by calling it "needlessly pessimistic" and he was so astonished that he had to sit for a good hour and think about the man he'd become. After that, he went straight to Enjolras's house, stuck a bouquet of hastily-picked flowers in his face, dropped down to one knee, and asked for his hand in marriage. Enjolras, surprised and ecstatic, accepted with tears in his eyes.

Grantaire and Enjolras were married on a lovely clear day in June. Cosette's father officiated, and Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Eponine formed the very enthusiastic wedding party. The ceremony was absolutely beautiful, but it was nothing compared to the reception, which became legendary throughout New Rochelle, and helped to establish Enjolras and Grantaire as the most popular, fashionable couple in the city. Soon, their house was so filled with merriment and love that they remembered their previous lonely years as nothing more than a bad dream.

Cosette and Marius followed them soon after, marrying in a stately, romantic ceremony in midsummer. However, they were in no way separated from Courfeyrac and Jehan; the four of them moved into Enjolras's old house (which he had abandoned, too weighed down by the memories it contained) and began a happy domestic life together.

Combeferre and Feuilly decided to move in together as well, and to take their baby with them. They knew it would be difficult, but they were ready and willing to try. So they bought a house together for themselves, and started on the family life that they felt was so overdue. Little Enjolras (for of course, they'd named their child after their dearest friend) would grow up safe and happy, in a place of love and care.

Eponine, now rich, had time and money to spare for doctors. She visited a throat specialist, hoping to regain her voice, and with time, it began to return. For the first time in years, she was able to sing again. She started singing pieces at Combeferre's concerts, and as her fame grew, so did the number of her performances. Soon, she was a sought-after concert performer, known and celebrated the country over. She and Montparnasse began a casual relationship, though of course Cosette always left the back door open for her, and the two women were often seen cuddling in public. For the first time in her life, she was very, very happy.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta all moved in together. They were perfectly complementary, the lawyer, the doctor, and the radical anarchist. Each of them continued working on their own projects– Joly to open a clinic, Bossuet to get his degree, and Musichetta to run for office– but together, they provided an unstoppable force.

Finally, Gavroche and Azelma, now brother and sister in name as well as spirit, began for the first time to have normal childhoods. Grantaire and Enjolras spoiled them, but at the same time, tried to bring them up in the best way possible. They both had proper schooling, and went to all the social events for children of their age, and most of all (because both Grantaire and Enjolras knew how important it was), had supportive, pleasant friends. And through it all, they began to see that the future was not such a bad thing after all.

In fact, that was what everyone was beginning to see. Life was still hard, sometimes, and dark, and often discouraging. But there was hope. They saw that now. No matter what happened, they would keep on fighting for a better tomorrow, and someday, they knew the earth would be free. The sun had risen; now it was time to face the day.


End file.
